One Word At A Time
by Elialys
Summary: A collection of drabbles and short stories, all about Peter and Olivia.
1. Introduction

**ONE WORD AT A TIME**

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><p><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I do not own anything or anyone in those drabbles.

**A/N**: Alright so this is a little different. This 'fic' is going to be a collection of drabbles I have been writing these past few weeks.

One night on Tumblr, I told people that if they sent me a word, I would write them a 100 words drabble using that word. Next thing I knew I had 20 words waiting for me lmao.

I will post a few today, and then maybe one or two every day. Some are very fluffly, some are smutty, some are angsty. I'll rate this 'T' to be safe.

Keep in mind that most of them were written late at night within 10 minutes XD


	2. Snuggle

**SPOILERS**: FOR 3x20 "6:02AM EST"

**A/N:** So this is actually my newest drabble, and nobody had to give me a word to inspire me XD This was actually inspired by the new promo that just came out today (go on youtube and search 'FRINGE - Where Will You Be? Part 5 '. It might kill you). I had to write something.

I JUST HAD TO THEY ARE SIMPLY TOO GORGEOUS

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><p><strong>SNUGGLE<strong>

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><p>She'd had every intentions of slipping back into bed as quietly as she had escaped it. But as soon as she came close enough to see his face, she knew he was awake.<p>

She still didn't say a word as she found her way back under the covers; the instant she was within his reach again, he wrapped an arm around her waist, bringing her much closer, until their foreheads touched and his eyes were the only thing she could see.

They didn't talk; they didn't need to talk. She knew he felt it, too; that incredible calm and serenity, that feeling that nothing could ever be better than this. Them, snuggling quietly, lost into the feel of the other. The brush of his fingers on her back was the most delicate caress, and all she could do was nuzzle her nose against his, wondering if it was possible to melt from loving someone too much.

In all honestly, she could say with certainty that there would be worse fate for her than dissolving into his embrace. She could spend hours just lying here, sheltered from the rest of the world by his warmth and tender touch.

In this endless minute, nothing else existed but him, and her.

"You know, this is my favorite time of day," she spoke softly, eyes drifting from his face to some distant land, feeling like she should share with him every beautiful thought and hope he breathed into her heart. "Sunrise when…the world's full of promise, you know…"

She nuzzled her nose against his once more, until her opened his eyes again. And she knew he understood.

"You're the only promise I need…" he whispered against her lips.


	3. Vagenda

A/N: This was the first word I got. It's pretty self-explanatory XD

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><p><strong>VAGENDA<strong>

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><p>Olivia always had some reasons in the past to try and ignore Walter. And she usually succeeded very well.<p>

The problem today was that, while she was trying to focus on the report in front of her eyes, he was standing less than two feet away from her, staring shamelessly. She glanced up again, and found him still staring indeed, chewing on his red vine with a smile full of innuendo.

Oh, she very well knew what it was all about. It had everything to do with how she had tried to sneak out of their house this morning, and how he had been awake, happy to give her the same kind of smile as she ran out.

"What, Walter?" she finally sighed.

"Nothing," he grinned, looking high. "I'm just happy that my son finally found his way into the right vagenda."


	4. Cookie

**A/N:** This is so fluffy you might get a sugar high.

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><p><strong>COOKIE<strong>

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><p>He dipped his fingers into the dough, before bringing a fist full of it to his mouth. Soon, his whole face was covered with it, and she could do nothing but watch as he licked his fingers, making happy, contented sounds that only three year olds were allowed to make in public.<p>

Of course, their kitchen wasn't exactly a public place.

"Baby, you're not going to be hungry for the cookies if you stuff up on the dough."

He looked up from the bowl, his bright blue eyes widening. "But it's too yummy, mama!"

She ran an affectionate hand through his blond hair, grinning tenderly. "You sure have your grandpa's stomach."


	5. Thigh Holster

A/N: Nothing too graphic :p

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><p><strong>THIGH HOLSTER<strong>

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><p>The thigh holster was the first thing that had to go.<p>

He ran his hand up the length of her leg, sliding under the silky fabric of her dress, and finding the gun hiding there. His fingers played with the holster, trying to get it off her, but he was also busy kissing the tender skin of her neck, and the way she was arching her head back into the pillow in approval was incredibly distracting.

"I don't know what's the sexiest," he whispered in her ear. "You in a dress, or the gun hanging on your thigh."

She brought her knee up against him then, and he had to close his eyes.

"Why don't you take both off?" She breathed out. "I'm not too bad on my own."

Truer words were never spoken.


	6. Strange

**A/N:** Last one for today ;-)

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><p><strong>STRANGE<strong>

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><p>It's strange really, how time seems to literally stop during the most frightening moments. When you're supposed to be at your best, to be as reactive as possible, as fast as you can. Everything simply stops, the air freezes, as if enclosed in Amber, and you can do nothing but watch as the world unravel in front of your helpless eyes.<p>

Olivia knows strange. Strange is what she lives, strange is what she is. And there definitely is something strange in the way her whole chest seems to be exploding at the moment, as a result of the pressure within, the ache in her heart unbearable.

And all she can do is watch as the Machine implodes with light, blinding her, swallowing Peter into a ball of energy.


	7. Balls

**A/N:** Hey guys!

Thank you so much to everybody who wrote a review on the previous drabbles, you guys are the best! :') I'm sorry, I know I haven't been answering them, but Real Life has been all kind of stressful and time consuming; this semester is almost done though (THANK GOD) so I'll start answering again, promise!

Three more drabbles for you ;-)

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><p><strong>BALLS<strong>

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><p>When the moment came for her to strike, and being deprived of her gun, Olivia used the first weapon she could reach.<p>

There was a sweet irony to it.

She grabbed one of the balls, her fingers curling into the holes, before stretching her arm out, giving force to her upcoming strike.

The bowling ball hit Sam's face with a sickening cracking noise. He fell to the floor, his fucking, superior smile finally gone from his face.

"Now that we made clear that I was done dealing with your Yoda crap, you're going to tell me the whole story." She almost growled. "Peter doesn't have time for more riddles."


	8. Sigh

**A/N:** I wrote this one 3 weeks ago but I think it's kinda fitting the scene we'll get in the new episode :')

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><p><strong>SIGH<strong>

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><p>She said more with her sighs than she did with words. He always knew that; they had shared this quiet communication since day one. He simply knew all of her sighs, now, in the most intimate, precious way.<p>

The frustrated sigh, along with the restless pacing, fingers twitching and twisting together. The amused sigh, this sound always so close to a chuckle, but too quiet to be one, her lips curling up, eyes looking down. The defeated sigh, often followed by the whisper of his name. His name, rolling under her tongue, usually followed another kind of sigh, when it was not swallowed by a raising moan, skin against skin.

And then, there was the happy sigh, the content sigh, her breath warm and soft against his neck as she nuzzled her nose there, and for a fleeting moment, they ignored the rest of the world(s).


	9. Pizza

**A/N:** One of my personal favorite XD

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><p><strong>PIZZA<strong>

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><p>They never actually got any pizza. And it just made her smile, because it truly might be the lamest excuse she had ever heard.<p>

"We're going to get pizza, want anything?"

The first time they had asked, Astrid had been foolish enough to ask for a salad. When they had come back an hour later –clearly a little too flushed and giddy for it to be caused by pepperoni and cheese, there was no salad for her. So she didn't ask for anything anymore, and every time Walter tried to make a request, she brushed it off, offering to go get it instead.

She had been waiting for these two to work things out and get together for too long, and she was genuinely enjoying their happiness. She was always happy to get Walter off their backs. Let them have some "pizzas". They deserve the break from universal wars and such.

She watched them escape the lab, almost hopping, before exchanging a knowing smile with Walter. He turned back to his board, flipping it over, and adding a line next to the others.

"That makes 9 pizzas in the last six days, dear. You're going to lose that bet, I'm afraid; they're clearly going to go over 10 before the end of the week."

"That's alright," Astrid smiled, making her way to the door herself to go get his liquorish. "That's one bet I'm happy to lose."


	10. Peanuts

**A/N:** Thank you so much for reading and reviewing guys, you're awesome :') Three more for you! This one is definitely fluffy XD

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><p><strong>PEANUTS<strong>

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><p>When he comes back, she hasn't moved from where she lay when he left, a short half-hour ago. She's curled up on the couch, arms tightly wrapped around her middle. Her eyes are closed, but the intense grimace of discomfort displayed on her face tells him that she's not asleep.<p>

He crouches down next to her, running his fingers gently over her pale cheek. She opens her eyes. She doesn't say anything, but he hears her words anyway.

"I brought more peanuts," he whispers then, holding out the brand new can he just bought, and she sits up right away, grabbing it.

"Thank _god_," she sighs, already diving her fingers into the can. "I hope you bought more than one."

"Ten, actually," he admits, sitting down next to her; she drops her head on his shoulder, chuckling tiredly. "I panicked. I don't want you to run out in the middle of the night."

"Well, we can be sure of one thing," she says then, chewing on another mouthful of peanuts. "This kid isn't going to be allergic."


	11. Coffee Machine

**A/N**: The Bishop boys are in trouble XD

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><p><strong>COFFEE-MACHINE<strong>

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><p>"Walter, you were supposed to take care of this."<p>

Peter's voice was low, his eyes dark and his jaw set in a way that was telling of just how irritated he was.

Walter nervously rubbed his hands together, looking down apologetically. "I…I know son, I'm sorry. I got distracted making this new recipe, see? I had the most wonderful epiphany while on the throne and-"

"Oh please, spare me whatever discovery you made while in the bathroom, Walter," Peter cut him off, unable to contain a disgusted face. "We need to work on it before Olivia comes back."

"Work on what?"

They turned with a start towards Olivia who was now standing in the doorway, both men looking like deer caught in headlights.

"Oh dear…" Walter mumbled, escaping the kitchen.

"Walter!" Peter called out, but he was gone, and he was left facing a very confused –and slightly on the defensive- Olivia.

"What happened, Peter?"

He sighed, briefly closing his eyes, before admitting: "I'm sorry Olivia. Walter broke the coffee-machine."


	12. Dancing

**A/N: **This is most definitely canon in my head. I just want them to stay like this forever and ignore what's happening for real on the show X_X

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><p><strong>DANCING<strong>

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><p>The room was packed with people, but she had long forgotten about them all. Peter was the only thing real to her at that instant. He was the only thing tangible, and she was clinging to him as if the world was about to crumble around them. Who knew, it might just happen tomorrow.<p>

Her arms were tightly wrapped around him, his around her. He had buried his nose in her hair, as hers was pressed into the soft fabric of his white shirt. Every time she breathed in, she was intoxicated by the scent of his cologne, stronger than usual for the occasion. It was the most wonderful scent. One breath was enough for her to feel warm and safe. Loved. It was his.

Just like she was.

And so Olivia kept on doing just that. Breathing in. Breathing him. Ignoring the rest of the world but for the music sheltering them from what they would soon have to face.


	13. Glowstick

**A/N: ** I can't believe I am that bad at updating drabbles that have been written for weeks LOL! Sorry guys, RL is still killing me slowly, but thank you all so much for your feedbacks, they are SO appreciated :') So I'll give you 4 drabbles today, to make up for the wait!

This is such a crack!drabble. We started the whole silliness over glowsticks and P/O with some Fringies on Tumblr, and then one of them gave me that prompt and…well, I didn't even have the strength to add descriptions of any kind. So it's all dialogues XD

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><p><strong>GLOWSTICK<strong>

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><p>"Wait a second, did you just say '<em>glowstick<em>'_?"_

"Well…that's just one way to name it, right?"

"Why would you even name it in the first place?"

"Don't all guys name their…you know, glowsticks?"

"No, they don't. And why on EARTH did you decide on 'glowstick', exactly?"

"I found it was fitting."

"Because…?"

"Well, alright. You know how sometimes, it gets _really_ intense, and you start glimmering?"

"Mmmyeah?"

"Well. You glimmer all over."

"Excuse me?"

"You. Glimmer. EVERYWHERE, Peter."

"Oh."

"Yeah. So, you know. Glowstick."


	14. Bacon

**A/N:** Everything is Peter/Bacon(/Olivia) and nothing hurts.

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><p><strong>BACON<strong>

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><p>He doesn't know why he loves it so much. He just cannot get enough of it. The feeling as it melts on his tongue, delighting his taste buds…the rich, salty, savory texture makes his mouth feel like wonderland.<p>

Olivia is well aware of his addiction to bacon. And yet, she looks at him right in the eyes when she picks up the very last piece from the plate, before bringing it slowly to her mouth. She takes a bite off it, and it's so crispy that it crackles under her teeth. She licks the grease off her bottom lip with a luscious tongue.

Whatever look he is giving her at that instant, it causes her to raise a teasing eyebrow, holding out the rest of the piece.

"If you want it, come and get it," she challenges.

And dear God, she tastes just like bacon.


	15. Blindfold

**A/N: **Written BEFORE the Finale. I actually wrote another drabble later on that is the perfect follow up but…another day XD

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><p><strong>BLINDFOLD<strong>

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><p>She falls to the ground, where she has seen his body crumple. She reaches for him, ignoring the different aches pulsing through her limbs, because nothing can win over the screaming fear breaking her heart.<p>

She takes the blindfold off his eyes, hoping that he will blink at her. He doesn't.

His body is limp and broken, a thin trickle of blood having made its way out of his cracked lips. She cups his face in her hands, trembling fingers gently caressing his bruised cheeks. And when she calls his name, it is a more a supplication than a whisper.

"Peter?"


	16. Orgasm

**A/N:** Does it really need a description? LOL. Someone dared me, I obliged XD

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><p><strong>ORGASM<strong>

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><p>It was always the same, and never as it was. The wave. It was endlessly changing, morphing, as if a breeze from a distant shore came swirling into the sea, reshaping everything, similar yet different, sometimes building slowly, other times crashing hard, unyielding.<p>

It didn't matter, really. It always ended the same way.

Higher and higher and higher it went, and she was carried away. It started low within herself, pulsing furiously. And it spread. It spread in every inch of her flesh and skin, overtaking her very soul, tingling in her toes and to the tip of her fingers. She could almost feel it, it was almost solid, this wave of liquid fire consuming her whole. Higher and higher and higher she went, almost too intense, almost painful, always so mind-shattering.

And through it all, the rising and the fall, he was the only thing she saw.


	17. Giraffe

**A/N:** I have to remind myself to update this story once in a while XD I'm glad you're enjoying those drabbles guys, thank you for the reviews! This one is pure fluff lol.

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><p><strong>GIRAFFE<strong>

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><p>"Daddy? Why do giraffes have long necks?"<p>

Olivia, who had been busy watching one of the giraffes as he chewed on a big leaf all the while looking bored, dropped her eyes to look at her six-year-old son. He too was staring at the chewing giraffe; his brow was furrowed, an intense look of wonder on his face, and he looked so much like his father at that instant that she couldn't suppress a grin.

Peter bent over the railing, so his face would be leveled with Charlie's, and he asked: "Do you remember when we talked about Darwin and his theory about evolution?"

"Sure," Charlie nodded. "Natural selection. 'Survival to the fattest'."

"Fittest, Charlie, fittest." Peter corrected with a chuckle. "Well, according to Darwin, a long looong time ago, giraffes didn't generally have a long neck. But some of them did, and they could get more food, and make more babies. The one with short necks eventually died out, and the long necks conquered the world."

Charlie nodded approvingly, smiling knowingly at his father: "Nature's cruel." And Peter nodded with him, sharing an enlightened look.

For a moment, Olivia just stared at them. And then, she couldn't help herself.

"I used to be able to cross between universes, you know."


	18. Meadow

**A/N:** Just a glimpse into Olivia's mind at the end of season 2.

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><p><strong>MEADOW<strong>

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><p>Olivia doesn't really know how she has ended up here, in the meadow part of the park. It seems like one minute, she was hiding between the trees, and the next, she was standing there, fully exposed, her face only shadowed by the hood of her jacket.<p>

Even though she's in no immediate danger anymore, her heart still beats too fast beneath her ribs, and she has to force herself to keep her breathing deep and slow, glancing around nervously. People don't even notice her. She has always been good at that, blending into the picture, ignored by all.

A sudden ache invades her heart, as she remembers that it is not true, not anymore. Someone made her feel special, once. Or twice.

'_I've never met anyone who can do the things that you do.'_

As she stares at the shapes of the twin towers, far, far off in the distance, she has rarely felt so alone, so homesick.

'_Peter.'_


	19. Pillow and Melody

**A/N:** I'm really sorry guys, I completely forgot about updating this while writing In Reverse, even though I had a few more left. But now I'm back to writing drabbles since my baby is over (*sobs*), I wrote 3 more tonight already. I'm going to post two tonight :) Thank you all so much for the reviews, especially to "A fan" (aww) who very kindly reminded last week that I should update XD

This was written with the prompts **Pillow** and **Melody**. It was also written before we learned all about Peter's and Olivia's favorite sleeping position.

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><p><strong>PILLOW &amp; MELODY<strong>

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><p>At times, Peter wondered why there even was a pillow for her in his bed, since 9 times out of 10, she was using his body as one. Not that he complained in the least. He would have to be mad not to enjoy every second she spent with her ear pressed upon his chest. Sometimes, when he spooned up behind her, she still curled up in her sleep, and ended up using his arm to rest her head, completely numbing the limb after a few hours in that position. He didn't care. Having her in his bed -besides the obvious very enjoyable aspect of it- was all kind of wonderful.<p>

He would never have guessed that of her, but the very private Olivia Dunham was incredibly chatty while snuggling. She was opened and honest, almost dreamy at time. Once, as her cheek rested on his chest, her fingers lazily playing with the light hair scattered there, she had murmured that his heartbeat was the most beautiful melody she had ever heard.

She rarely used her pillow, but the few times she did were enough to impregnate the linen with her scent. He knew that because on the rare nights they did not spend together, he always ended up burying his face in it, breathing in deeply, feeling like an addict in desperate need of a fix. That was the only way he could fall asleep now, with her scent invading his lungs and soothing his senses.

He wouldn't want it any other way.


	20. Eyelash

**A/N: **This one was written before the Finale. I also think it goes well with my other drabble "Blindfold".

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><p><strong>EYELASH<strong>

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><p>It hangs on them, about to fall, quivering slightly. The tear on her eyelashes, that is.<p>

And it's funny, really, how he can see it so clearly and sharply, when everything else around him has turned fuzzy and dark. He himself feels incredibly numb and weightless. He doesn't even feel her hands on his face, fingers digging into his flesh, her face so close to his. And when she speaks, her words are muffled, as if his head was under water.

"Peter, please, stay with me. Don't do this to me."

He doesn't even see the desperation in her eyes. All he sees is that tear. And when it finally falls, it lands on his lips, and slides into his mouth. And for a moment there, he can taste it, blending with the acre tinge of his blood.

The salt, the pain, the plea.

_'It's okay…'_ he wants to tell her.

But he cannot speak anymore.


	21. Moulin Rouge

**A/N:** Hi guys! First of all, thank you so much for your reviews, it always surprises me in the nicest way when people actually write reviews for such tiny stories! It means a lot :')

So this one is different. What I mean is that my prompt got a little out of hand and ended up being over 1,000 words long instead of around 100, which is more like a small oneshot than a drabble at this point XD So I will only post this one tonight :)

Beware, it's so terribly _fluffy_. But 'Moulin Rouge' is one of my all time favorite movies, I had to XD

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><p><strong>MOULIN ROUGE<strong>

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><p>Even the sound of a new bottle of wine being opened on the other side of the table didn't manage to draw Olivia's eyes away from Peter and Ella, playing farther away in the yard. She knew she had a stupid grin on her face, but as there was hardly anything she could do about it, she didn't care. Peter had always been amazing with her niece –the childish side of him always happy to pop out- but now, it was of course even more endearing. Everything was <em>more <em>and_ _better__ when you were in love.

"So," Rachel said then a little too loudly to make her look away from the scene. "What's the dirt?"

"What dirt?" Olivia asked as her sister filled both their empty glasses.

"Oh you know, all the little embarrassing things about Peter that nobody but you knows. As your sister, I'm supposed to be asking you about the quality of your sex life, but what's the point, right? We both know you never share any juicy detail."

Olivia grabbed her glass, smiling mysteriously. "Aaaaah, it's only because you've always shared enough of those for the both of us."

Rachel raised her eyebrow then, in a very suggestive way; it was one of these quiet exchange only siblings understood, and this specific gesture had to be followed by one of three choices: a raise of her own eyebrow, a shrug or a scowl. Depending on the quality of her sex life.

As Rachel took a sip of her drink, Olivia stared back at her and raised her eyebrow. Several times. Which had them giggling quite stupidly into their wine for a few moments.

"Seriously, Liv." Rachel insisted once their giggling fit had passed. "He can't possibly be as flawless as he appears to be."

Olivia snorted. "Being both a man and a genius, he is by default far from flawless. But even torture would not make me spill dirt on my boyfriend."

At her words, Rachel literally started _squealing,_ which earned them worried looks from Ella and Peter, in the distance. Olivia waved her hand at him, silently saying '_Don't even ask.'_ He offered her a smile that dissolved her insides, before he was knocked off his feet by Ella.

Olivia waited for her sister to regain some composure, eyeing her suspiciously. "Don't tell me it's because I called him my 'boyfriend'. Because you wouldn't be the first one having that kind of excessive reaction. Astrid almost burst into tears."

"You kidding, right?" Rachel exclaimed way too excitedly again. "It took you guys so long to work things out and actually get together! I thought it would take the end of the world for you to make a move or something!"

Olivia choked on her next sip of wine. Rachel knew nothing about universal wars or vortexes, and yet, she had guessed quite right. "Oh stop it," she told her little sister with a hoarse voice. "You make it sound like we're an epic love story of some kind."

Rachel shrugged apolitically, still smiling. "You know me. I'm everything you're not. Sociable. Gorgeous. Tragically romantic."

Olivia pursed her lips, ready to give her a comeback of her own, but her last statement took her thoughts somewhere else all together, and she sat up straighter on her seat. "Oh, speaking of tragically romantic, I think I have some kind of information about Peter that might fulfill your obnoxious curiosity."

Rachel mimicked her, sitting on the edge of her chair, looking way too excited. "Ohhhh do share."

"The other night, we were watching TV, going through the channels to try and find something decent to watch, and your favorite movie was on."

"Moulin Rouge!" Rachel squealed again, actually spilling some of her wine on the table and not caring.

"Yes," Olivia nodded with a chuckle, "that one. And we actually watched it."

"Oh my GOD," Rachel was in awe. "I've never managed to make you sit through the whole movie. You've always said it was _'over-done, grotesque and unrealistic._'"

"Well, it _is_, Rach," she said intentionally coldly, because she never liked it when her sister imitated her. She seriously didn't sound like that at all.

"Why did you watch it then?"

Olivia shrugged, her eyes drifting to Peter again, who was now showing Ella some of his magic tricks, and a dreamy smile crossed her lips. "We were cozy."

Rachel cleared her throat, and when Olivia looked at her, she had raised her eyebrow again.

"Not _that _cozy. Not everything is about sex, Rachel. And you want to hear it or not?"

Rachel nodded in a way that made her look like she was ten again.

"So you know how you learn two minutes into the movie that the girl is going to die, so it doesn't surprise anyone when she actually does at the end?"

"Yes. I think that's pretty much the only part of the movie you had ever watched."

"That and the incredibly loud and incomprehensible part when they go into the Moulin Rouge for the first time. Anyway. We missed the beginning, so Peter had _noooo_ idea what was coming."

Rachel, who had started to sink back into her seat, sat right back up, spilling more of her wine, her eyes widening. "Ohhhh my god. Liv. Don't tell me he cried."

Olivia pressed her lips together trying not to smile and nodded, and as she had predicted, her sister completely lost it again.

"Oh my God! I would kill to see this!" Rachel squealed.

"It was kind of awkward, actually," Olivia admitted, but then she couldn't help a laugh, remembering the scene. "And absolutely endearing of course. He was desperately pinching his eyes like it would keep the tears in and hide the fact that he was crying watching TV, muttering '_Don't say anything'."_

It was another minute before Rachel could speak without sounding like a retarded donkey. "Please tell me you didn't let it go."

"Uh uh," Olivia shook her head with a wicked smile. "I teased him endlessly. And all he had to say was: _'It's your fault! I identified too much with him!'_

Rachel narrowed her eyes. "But…you don't have tuberculosis."

Olivia nodded her head. "Exactly what I told him. I also said that if it was a ploy to try and get me into one of Satine's costume, he should give up immediately. He was not amused. Apparently, I had too many near-death experiences with my job, and he's traumatized. Go figure."

Rachel brought a hand to her heart then, turning in her sit to look at Peter and Ella. "So on top of being gorgeous and funny and smart, he's actually incredibly sweet and tragically romantic." There was definite envy and longing in her voice.

Olivia smiled as her own eyes stopped on him, remembering a time when she had actually felt jealous of her sister when it came to Peter, and she shook her head at the memory. As if feeling her gaze on him, he turned his head then, and their eyes met.

"He is," she concurred with a ridiculously happy smile. "And he's all mine."


	22. Cup of Milk

**A/N: **Three more drabbles for you today, guys! Thank you so very, very much for your reviews on "Moulin Rouge", I had the feeling you would enjoy the fluff XD

This was written back in April, just before "LSD" aired.

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><p><strong>CUP OF MILK<strong>

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><p>When Walter puts a cup of fresh milk between her slightly trembling hands, Olivia has no other choice than to accept it.<p>

"Drink it while it's warm, dear, it's Gene's finest. It will make you feel better."

Peter watches as she nods shortly, averting the old man's eyes, staring at the milk. She keeps saying that she's_ 'fine, just FINE_,' but he knows better. As well as he knows that a cup of warm milk will not be the solution to what is making her look so grave and tensed at that instant.

Tentatively, he extracts a hand from under his blanket, and puts it gently on her knee, almost expecting her to recoil. But she doesn't.

Instead, when she feels his touch, she finally raises her eyes from the milk, meeting his gaze. And for the first time since they have exited her mind, her face softens, as she offers him the slightest of smile.


	23. Tattoo

**A/N: **Just a small moment.

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><p><strong>TATOO<strong>

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><p>Olivia was actually starting to drowse off when he spoke. For the past few minutes, they had been lying almost perfectly still in his bed, her back spooned against his chest, and the only thing moving beside their heaving chests had been his thumb, lazily tracing small circles on her breast. His warm breath on her neck had slowed down, gradually lulling her to sleep; she felt safe…she felt home…and then he spoke.<p>

"Olivia?"

She didn't open her eyes, only making a soft grunting sound, letting him know that she had acknowledged him, but that she wouldn't mind going to sleep right now –he had managed to exhaust her quite sufficiently. She realized that he had moved his hand, then, as she felt his fingers on the back of her neck, moving her hair away. Tracing her skin.

"Why don't you get it removed?" His voice was barely louder than a whisper.

He sounded genuinely curious, wondering why she still had her Alternate's tattoo even though she had been back for a few months.

She shrugged slightly against him, almost in nonchalance, but when he brought his arm back around her, she was glad to intertwine his fingers with hers again, snuggling a little more into his warmth.

"I don't know…" she eventually murmured, unsure of the reason herself, of how to explain it with words. "It's just…to me, it's just another scar, you know?"

He didn't say anything, choosing to nuzzle his nose softly against her neck instead, before pressing a kiss right where she knew the tattoo still marked her skin.

He knew.


	24. Pineapple

**A/N**: Post 3x22 drabble :)

* * *

><p><strong>PINEAPPLE<strong>

* * *

><p>Olivia was quite certain that eating a fruit should not be that upsetting. And yet, as she cut herself another slice of pineapple, the lump in her throat became more pronounced. This was ridiculous; she had no reason whatsoever to get worked up, but that insatiable ache she constantly felt was definitely stronger tonight, making her long for something…or someone.<p>

When she took a bite of the fruit, she closed her eyes, letting the sweet and fresh taste of it fill her senses, soothing her mind, and some of the juice dribbled on her chin. She raised a hand to wipe the trail off, but another hand got there first, as she felt a finger brush her skin.

"Are you gonna need a bib to eat this?" a teasing voice asked –a man's voice, but there was a definite note of endearment in his tone.

Olivia almost choked on the pineapple, her breathe getting caught in her constricted throat, and she opened her eyes, heart thumping.

But both the memory and the man were gone.

All that remained was this lingering melancholy that drained all the sweetness away.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I will be posting a new (big) onehshot in the upcoming days (if I survive the hurricane XD). All about Olivia remembering Peter post season 3! :p


	25. Scars

**A/N: **This is me, trying to remember to update more than once every 3 months XD As always, thank you so much for reading those tiny stories, and for the few reviews; those are always appreciated :')

I wrote this AGES ago, possibly during December after Marionette. I had completely forgotten about it until today, when I went through my fics folder and clicked on it and went "whut?" *shrugs*

* * *

><p><strong>SCARS<strong>

* * *

><p>He was covering her skin with kisses, slowly, carefully, devotion in his touch. He took his time, as if he was making sure he would not forget one inch of her, and she was slowly dissolving under his hands and lips.<p>

And yet, through it all, despite the fact that she _knew_ this was all for her and her alone, she couldn't help but think about how he had done this, before.

He had done it all with _her_.

Her breath briefly got caught in her throat, and she tensed under him. Feeling her sudden anxiety, he moved upward again, until the warmth of his body was surrounding her almost entirely, and all she could see was his face. She didn't meet his eyes, though.

"Olivia?" he asked softly, and she felt his fingers on her cheek, pushing gently so she would turn her head and look at him. "What is it?"

She did meet his eyes then, and what she saw in his gaze was almost enough to make her forget everything that had been bothering her in the first place. Almost. The doubts were there, clenching her heart and obstructing her throat, and judging by the worried look that crossed his face, she knew that he could see it in her eyes.

"I'm sorry…" she whispered, bringing her own hands up to his face, curling her fingers in his hair. "I just… I can't help thinking that you've seen…her…me…like this before."

He didn't look away. He stared at her, in such a way that she felt her insides clench again.

"I did," he then admitted softly, and his honesty almost surprised her. And yet, she also loved him more for it. "But this is different. You are different."

"Why?" She whispered, and she could not hide the note of desperation in that simple word.

He leaned down again, bringing his face back to her neck, brushing kisses over her skin. She felt his tongue on the mark she knew was there, that white, wobbly line that had faded through the years, the only physical reminder of an old wound; she tilted her head back, her fingers digging into his scalp.

His lips moved higher, then, and she felt his warm breath on her temple, before he murmured in her ear:

"You don't have the same scars."


	26. Lurking

**A/N:** Look at that tiny thing haha! But it might be one of my favorite drabbles :p Season 1-ish

* * *

><p><strong>LURKING<strong>

* * *

><p>She was so distracted, barely paying attention to what she was doing. Peter, on the other hand, didn't miss a move, as she absent-mindedly tried to dry up her half-naked, dripping body with a towel, her other hand up to her ear, holding her phone.<p>

Barely out of the Tank and freed of the metal rod in her spine, she was already a step ahead, so focused on what she was fervently telling Charlie that she didn't realize that Peter was shamelessly lurking from farther away in the lab.

The sight of her was simply too enticing; he couldn't be blamed, her body lean and curving with her every move as she attempted to mope her skin. But there were droplets of water trickling down her exposed flesh, everywhere.

There definitely was too much exposed flesh.

"Son," Walter's voice snapped him out of his contemplation. "I believe you need to urinate."


	27. Behind the Mask

**A/N: **I'm updating these because I feel baaaad about being so terrible at updating my WIPs (as I expected). To my defense, season 4 is currently slowly draining the life and inspiration out my muse. It's very painful and frustrating, with a lot of unfinished oneshots, and a great dislike of the couple currently having the spotlight on screen, if you know what I mean (no, it's not Polivia ;_;).

Anyway, nothing very happy tonight, but I'm updating with three pieces (and one is big), so that's something, right? Thank you all so very much for still reading those little stories and for reviewing :))

This is set during '_The Day We Died'_ and it's as depressing as can be.

* * *

><p><strong>BEHIND THE MASK<strong>

* * *

><p>It was often said that your entire life flashed in front of your life just before you died.<p>

Another cliché Olivia never got to experience, no matter how many times she had _almost _died. It had always been too sudden, too unexpected, too brutal.

Today was different, though.

It was brutal, unexpected, and too sudden, but the floating second that passed between the moment when she turned around and the moment when he pulled the trigger was the second she had never gotten before.

Her life didn't flash in front of her eyes, though; dread and shock barely had time to squeeze her insides and make her blood run cold, as she stared at the man who had been hugging her warmly less than twenty-four ago.

Except that it wasn't the same man, behind the familiar, worn-out traits. It had always been a major problem with having Alternate versions of yourself or others walking around.

You would notice the differences, eventually, but rarely soon enough.

Never soon enough.

No time to fight, no time to run or duck. No time to beg, maybe -she had done it before. Not even time to have one last thought for her husband, and that was maybe for the best.

All there was was this fleeting instant of recognition. He had the face of someone she loved.

But she saw behind the mask.

She saw Death in his eyes.

And then she saw no more.


	28. Candles

**A/N:** So this is a bit different because it's not P/O, but Leeham (Alt!Lincoln/Alt!Livia). Someone asked me if I would be able to write a drabble on this paring, so I said '_Gve me a prompt and we shall see_'. This came out of the prompt 'candles'. It was greatly inspired by something on tumblr that pretty much said: 'Sometimes I like to depressed myself thinking about Lincoln taking care of baby Henry as the world dies around them.'

So yep. Another _very_ happy drabble. Sorry XD

* * *

><p><strong>CANDLES<strong>

* * *

><p>The candles were dying out.<p>

Their weak light flickered more and more rapidly, as if desperately trying to hold on a little bit longer, as if unwilling to fade away, to give up. This panicked pattern was as frantic as it was hopeless, the light dimming with every passing second.

Lincoln might have bothered getting up from the bed to light up one or two new candles, if he hadn't known those were the very last ones. Power had been out for days now, before the Sun had ceased to be all together, dooming their world to die in Darkness, because really, was there any other way to die?

These were the last candles. Very soon, their last source of Light would disappear, too, and the dark would be inescapable. He found it rather ironic how, behind all his brave demeanor, he had actually always been quite scared of the dark.

As if she could hear his thoughts -he doubted she could hear the change in his breathing over the Noise, that sound outside that simply kept on getting louder and louder and _louder_, the sound of a universe shattering around them- Olivia moved her hand from Henry's chest to rest it softly on his cheek, trying to soothe his anguish away with the gentle caress of her thumb.

It was as pointless as the candles' battle to keep on burning, to keep the Light on, but what else was there to do, now? They were like everybody else, resigned to this unfathomable fate.

And in those last few hours, minutes, seconds, there was no place else for him to be.

There never was.

He held on to her as long as he still could. He drank in the green of her eyes, knowing that soon, too soon, this color would disappear, too. Maybe if he stared long and hard enough, he could tattoo all the shades that painted her irises deep into his soul, so that when the Darkness came, he would still be able to stare into her eyes.

And somehow, he knew she was doing it, too.

Eventually, she did move her hand away from his face, back to her baby's sleeping body, and he didn't mind; he understood. He understood why she needed to feel the rise and fall of his small chest under her palm while she still could. He understood all too well.

And so he brought his own hand up, covering hers over Henry's warm body, wondering lengthily and briefly if that was what a family felt like.

Because when the candles died out, the feel of them was all he had left.


	29. Not Yours

**A/N: **This is the first 1,000 words of what was supposed to be a oneshot. I wrote 3,000 words after that, but you'll never see them, because the current plot on the show killed it. I also wrote 6,000 words of _another_ onehsot before this, that was _also_ killed by canon. I'm not very happy :D

Anyway. This was written after 'And Those We've Left Behind', and before 'Wallflower'.

* * *

><p><strong>NOT YOURS<strong>

* * *

><p>The problem with Peter Bishop –beside the fact that he's not supposed to exist, is that he looks at her with love in his eyes.<p>

Generally speaking, he seems like a rather confident man. And that's a bit of an understatement. He's well aware of his skills and abilities, possessing a brain that easily competes with Walter's, even more so since, unlike Walter, Peter is not crazy. Or at least, not as obviously crazy.

But when he looks at Olivia and he thinks she's not aware of it, when their eyes meet and she finds herself trapped in the intensity of his gaze, during that second it takes him to look away or mask it all, there is no sign of arrogance left on his face. No attitude, no smug smile.

All he does is _look_ at her, and his eyes fill up with tenderness and affection. He looks at her as if she's the only thing he needs, the only thing he really cares about.

As if she's the reason why he erased himself from existence in the first place.

Peter looks at her with love in his eyes, and that is what makes her feel so uncomfortable around him.

She can't match his fire, the passion she can tell there must have been between him and another version of her. It's only been three days since he has appeared in her life, after all; for all intents and purposes, he _is_ a stranger.

Of course, they both know now that he's been visiting her for more than three days. But dreams are just that.

Dreams.

That's why she lies to him when he asks her if she's felt something while in there, a hint of hope in his voice.

That's why she doesn't tell him that she did dream of the park, of Walter swinging, of soft fingers on her cheek, of gentle kisses and perfect days.

These were just dreams. When she's awake, everything she knows and feels during the night morph again, and Peter goes back to being this disconcerting stranger who looks at her as if she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

She's not the woman he loves. And when they finally talk about it, acknowledge it, and she realizes that he _knows_ it, she almost feel her entire body and soul relax, freed from that burden she has never asked to be bearing in the first place.

"Well, I hope you get back to her."

Another luckier version of herself, she thinks briefly as he smiles at her. She's not envious of _her_; she's honestly glad to know that this kind of love is possible for her, even if here, in this world, Peter Bishop never existed.

He doesn't belong with her.

"Thank you. Me too."

That is Olivia's first mistake. When she lets her guard down around him, because she thinks it's safe to do so. He's taken, burned to the core by this other her, by this woman she's not.

She lets herself smile at him, when she shouldn't have. She lets herself ponder on the strength and depth of that bond, even though it is not wise.

Because as it turns out, for a second there, she understands perfectly how _she_ had come to love him back.

* * *

><p>Peter cannot go back home.<p>

He cannot go back home, because home is where he is now.

The major problem he has with this statement is that everything and everyone he cares about, everything that made this place _home_ in the first place, it's all gone. People look the same, feel the same, just like his house does, but everything is empty.

There is no trace of him left. There never was any trace of him in the first place.

He's the stranger, the anomaly, the 'Fringe Event', as Broyles so regularly points it out to get Walter to work with him.

He watches his 'father' mumble and glare at him warily, chewing on his red vines, and he remembers his lucid face, his quivering smiles and the deep wrinkles on his skin when he did so, remembers feeling blinded by the warmth and pride in his eyes.

He stares at Olivia, and even though he enjoys the fact that she smiles at him now, instead of recoiling whenever he's too close, he despises the quality of these smiles. He doesn't need her pity.

He remembers how she used to smile, how she used to smell, her face so close to his, her eyes loving and tender; her remembers how good it felt, to have her, to simply _have_ her, to love her without restraint, and to know in every fiber of his being that she loved him back.

The time jumps and bouts of hallucinations he keeps on experiencing don't help. He's pretty sure that if Walter really accepted to help him, they could figure it out together, but the man is so incredibly stubborn. And so he keeps on flashing in and out of this reality, sometimes ending up wearing clothes from another time. The wedding ring is what troubles him the most, in the most excruciating way, because it causes him to _hope_, hope that at some point he will pop back somewhere where his Olivia is. And yet, parts of him also know that wherever he ends up –or rather whenever- when he jumps through time, he sees glimpse of a future in which she's likely to be already dead.

He often awakes with jolt in the dark of night, her face still carved in his mind eyes from his peaceful dreams, convinced that everything so far as been nothing but a nightmare. If he opened his eyes, Olivia would be right there, her back to him.

In those moments, he always lets his mind wander, lets it recreate the smell of her warm, sleeping body, and he can almost feel her curves under his palm, the smoothness of her skin under his fingertips, the silk of her hair against his nose. It is hardly a sexual desire he feels in those moments, but pure longing for _her_.

Because for fifteen years, she has fit so perfectly in his arms that now, so completely deprived of her, he feels like he was missing a limb. Or half of his soul, really.

He wants to go home.

* * *

><p><strong> AN**: I really, _really_ think that Peter is where he is supposed to be, and that he will come to realize it in future episodes. Therefore, I can tell you I don't approve of the Lincoln/Olivia development at all. All I could do at the end of 'Wallflower' was cry in my pillow and I wish I was exaggerating. I just miss my OTP too much ;_; So I'm sorry for the abrupt end, the rest of this fic was about Olivia slowly remembering him and Peter having weird timejumps that combined with her remembering him, and it would have had a happy ending. But Fringe happened.

I'm trying to kick the muse back to life, I'm almost done with the new chapter of 'In Time', so really, any feedback would be truly appreciated at this point.


	30. Rain

**A/N: **You guys are amazing :') Thank you all so much for the love you're giving those little stories, it means a lot to me. I had another 'drabble night' on tumblr a little while ago, so I have a few more of those for you :) I wanted to post something to day to celebrate the New Year, so here are three for you! :D

The prompt for this one was, and I quote: "_Peter. Olivia. Kissing. Rain. Do it. Please._" So I shamelessly did XD

* * *

><p><strong>RAIN<strong>

* * *

><p>In that floating, endless instant that always follows any kind of cosmic event, even the rain seems to stop as his eyes find her amongst the crowd of faceless people. Agents, firemen, civilians, he doesn't know, doesn't care anymore. Because she's looking for him, too, her gaze roaming over faces, searching for his. And when their eyes finally meet and lock, he knows.<p>

She remembers everything.

The world starts spinning again, then, and yet it doesn't, not for them anyway. He feels the rain beating his skin as he makes his way back to her, feels it drench his clothes, knows it is dribbling down his face the way it is on hers, but he doesn't care. Olivia is the only thing he sees, and soon she is the only thing he feels as she gets within his reach, oblivious to the chaos surrounding them.

Without a single word, both his hands come up, and within seconds, his fingers are buried deep into the tangled, soaking mess of her hair, and he draws her to him with the intensity of a drowning man having just found his saving breath.


	31. Couch

**A/N: **So during drabble nights, I'm supposed to write 100 words long drabbles as fast as possible, but I never manage to respect the word limit rule XD So I just vomit lots of words really fast.

The prompt was: "_Olivia and Peter enter the apartment and she surprises him by shoving him on the couch." _

* * *

><p><strong>COUCH<strong>

* * *

><p>They are barely over the threshold of her door when Olivia pushes him away from her with surprising force. Admittedly, it might simply be due to the fact that it is a completely unexpected move from her; he has just spent the last few minutes pressing her harder and harder against the other side of the door, in a succession of long and languid kisses that he <em>knows<em> have left her quite weak in the knees, judging by the way she'd had the hardest time inserting her key in the keyhole with shaky fingers.

But things are about to change, and she makes it very obvious that it is his turn to have his knees weakened, closing the door loudly behind her before grabbing his jacket again and pushing him backward, towards the couch. He falls onto it without resisting too much.

It _is_ the first time she's letting him back into her place ever since they officially got together a few weeks ago, and if she wants to take the lead, he is happy to oblige. He watches as she roughly gets rid of her coat, her cheeks a delicious shade of dark pink, her ponytail messy, and he inwardly decides that as soon as she gives him a chance, he's going to have to free her hair and let it go wild with the help of his yearning hands.

The thought flies out of his mind as soon as she joins him on the couch, though, and she doesn't exactly straddle him as much as she _slithers_ all over him, her hands disappearing in his hair, nails scraping his scalp; she squeezes him hard between her thighs, then, and god he has never seen her eyes so dark before. He cups her burning face with equal impatience and pulls her even closer, but one of her hands promptly leaves his hair and she pressed her palm over his thumping heart, pushing herself away.

"Ever done it on this couch?" She asks him, then, and her voice is throaty and slightly breathless, her eyes piercing his with such intensity that he's pretty sure she's burning a hole into his soul.

"No," he manages to answer, or rather squeak out, as she rolls her hips into his and he sees stars.

The way she's still griping his hair is rather painful now, but he hardly minds, as she brings her face down, and he feels her hot, heavy breath against his ear.

"Well, that's about to change," she informs him, categorically, the hand she had pressed upon his chest now wandering down.

And indeed, when she's through with him, Peter never looks at that couch the same way again.


	32. Sing

**A/N: **I actually managed to keep that one short :p

* * *

><p><strong>SING<strong>

* * *

><p>It isn't until late one night, when he finds himself standing in the doorway with his shoulder pressed into the wood of the frame, that Peter realizes he had never heard Olivia sing before, a quiet observer as she tries to lull their son back to sleep.<p>

She's pacing slowly, the baby securely nestled in the crook of her arm as she rocks him gently but steadily, and Peter is nothing but dazzled by the sound of her voice. The melody that fills the air is soft and wordless, in a succession of long notes that are low enough to soothe the infant, but it doesn't take away the rich quality of her voice. And he watches, transfixed, as she has eyes for no one but her child, tracing his cheek once more with soft fingertips.

No words are needed to understand what she's telling him through her song.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Obviously, this is totally 'In Time' canon XD Just so you know, I might write more than one little drabble from Peter's POV in that future!verse, just because.

Happy New Year everyone, let's hope it will be filled with P/O goodness. Reviews are always loved :)


	33. Grave

**A/N:** I haven't updated this in forever, I'm sorry! I'm currently working on a new P/O story, so until it's ready to be posted, here are a few drabbles :)

I wrote this months ago during a 'prompt!night' on tumblr; the prompt was '_Peter visits the blue!Peter grave_'. I had never thought about it until I had to write about it, so this came out of nowhere. Oh, and I still firmly believe Peter is home, I don't know why I keep writing him going back to another timeline xD

* * *

><p><strong>GRAVE<strong>

* * *

><p>One of the first things Peter does when he makes it back home –and by home he means in a timeline in which his father doesn't look away with insane panic in his eyes, or in which Olivia would rather nestle her face in the crook of his neck than treat him like a dangerous child- is to visit his own grave.<p>

He keeps thinking his life can't get any weirder, but every time this thought crosses his mind, it comes back to bite him in the ass, a little harder every time.

He doesn't really know what he expects, by doing this. He knows he's not going to get a wondrous epiphany, and by now, he has seen alternates versions of different people standing together in the same room often enough to know that the universes aren't going to implode if he dares stand upon his grave.

Unsurprisingly, he ends up simply standing there a bit awkwardly, hands buried deep in the pockets of his peacoat, his breath forming a white cloud in the air every time his exhales. He stares at his own name, carved years and years ago upon the stone, and doesn't even feel remotely freaked out. He briefly thinks about his mom, and wonders if she used to come here in secret, even when she was busy rising him the rest of the time, when she wasn't trying to drown herself in her whiskey. But he pushes that thought away; it is neither the place nor the time to think about her.

He sighs heavily, then, the cloud bigger and thicker, briefly blurring the words. But a second later, the air is clear again, all of his questions and regrets once more invisible.

And there is only one thing he can ask _him._

"What would you have done, in my place?"


	34. Air Freshener

**A/N:** Another prompt!night drabble, written after a couple of humorous ones, just to prove myself I could make myself cry at 1am, I apologize.

* * *

><p><strong>AIR FRESHENER<strong>

* * *

><p>Smell is said to be the sense that can evoke the most powerful memories. And like everything else, anything that can bring back memories is both a blessing and a curse, to a grieving soul.<p>

For the first time since he has come home, Peter enters the bedroom, beyond drunk, and the _smell_ that instantly hits him almost causes him to fall to the ground. Like many other trivial, domestic things, Olivia had been the one deciding one day that they should have some air freshener plugged to their bedroom wall. At first, he had found the flowery smell a bit nauseating, but through the years, he had come to associate it with lazy Sunday mornings spent in bed, barely noticing it anymore, especially when his nose was pressed against her skin and she was the only thing he smelled.

Today, the scent is strong and overpowering, the way it always is during the first few days after refilling the device. His blurry eyes find it, plugged to the wall next to the dresser, and he remembers now, how she had changed it only two days ago.

When she was still alive.

He feels the brief urge to pull it off the wall and throw it to the ground, destroy it into as many broken pieces as his shattered heart. But he doesn't, his foggy brain pointing out the fact that it would only make the smell worse, anyway.

The ache is too unbearable, though, his longing for her too intense; and so he simply lets himself fall upon their bed, crawling like a wounded animal until his face is buried into her pillow.

And he finds himself hoping that his tears are not bitter enough to erase her scent from the linen.


	35. Bad Sex

**A/N**: To make up for the last one, here's a funny one…though I feel ashamed for having been pressured into write this. Obviously written long before _'Welcome to Westfield_' and its blue opening scene ever grazed our screens with all its S-rated-ness

* * *

><p><strong>BAD SEX<strong>

* * *

><p>This was without a doubt the most underwhelming sex Olivia had ever had.<p>

Granted, she hadn't had that many lovers in her life to compare him with, and her last one before tonight had been _John Scott_–so it was hard to do any better in the first place, and of course, first times were always sloppy, Peter had said it himself.

But really, there was sloppy and _sloppy_.

She was actually quite intrigued by the fact that he seemed to be enjoying himself alright over there, judging by the sounds and funny faces he kept on making, while she was just getting bored. But after all, her mom had once told her on her dying bed that she would always be able to keep a man happy as long as she lay on her back once or twice a month. May she rest in peace, that wise woman.

Olivia had really tried to get into it at first, thinking that it would get better if she persisted –and Olivia Dunham was one persistent woman, but Peter had managed the impossible: he had made her give up, after only 15 minutes of missing out on all her erogenous spots.

_All_ of them.

He kept kissing her chin instead of her lips, for some reasons. Maybe Walter had drugged him with something. She hoped Walter had drugged him with something.

Walter…at this point, she was pretty sure Walter was a better lover than his son.

Lucky for her, it was Tuesday tomorrow.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I know.

I have a short fluffy P/O story about their Friday nights routine lost somewhere on my tumblr. I'll dig it up and post it tomorrow if you want it xD


	36. Beautiful Things

**A/N: **Thank you for still reading/reviewing guys! :D This was written as a response to a request for some fluff, within an hour yesterday, so don't expect much except maybe a trip to the dentist after all this sugar xD

* * *

><p><strong>BEAUTIFUL THINGS<strong>

* * *

><p>She was without a doubt the most beautiful thing Peter had ever seen. And that was saying a lot, taking into account how his extensive travels a decade or so ago had led him to witness some wondrous sights. But he was only a man, after all, and he had never been immune to the charms of a beautiful girl.<p>

This one was setting a new record, though, and it wasn't helping at all that she was staring right back at him. He felt like he might start crying again soon, his manly pride long defeated anyway.

"Looks like someone's in love."

Peter couldn't say he was exactly surprised to hear the soft whisper coming from the bed, but he was startled out of his contemplation at the sound of her voice; moving his eyes away from his daughter's, he turned slightly to look at Olivia, who minutes ago had still been sound asleep, rightfully exhausted after her endless hours of labor and delivery. She hadn't moved, still mostly curled up under the covers, one arm tucked under the pillow, but she was definitely awake.

"You should sleep," he reprimanded her softly, to which she only smiled, a very sleepy smile.

"So should she," she pointed out. "Maybe if her father let her stay in that bassinet for more than five minutes, she would actually manage it."

"She was already awake," he defended himself with a slight scowl that only caused her to smile a little more, and unable to stop himself, he brought his gaze back to the little beauty nestled in the crook of his arm.

Her eyes were still wide opened, staring right back at him. In the very dim light of the hospital room, it was too dark for him to see their color, but he had already memorized their shade of blue earlier, just like he had her every trait, as well as the weight of her in his arms.

Not so long ago, with Olivia asleep, he had allowed himself a cafeteria break, his appetite finally resurfacing now that his stomach had stopped being a nervous knot, all of his understandable anxiety having morphed into dazed elation. When he had come back less than twenty minutes later, incapable of staying away from the room any longer, he had immediately gone to stand over the bassinet right next to Olivia's bed, ready to spend the next hour or two simply gazing down at their daughter, only to find her gazing up at him. He was only human, and very much in love indeed, of course he had picked her up, just so he could look at her and love her more closely.

"She's so alert," he said then, almost in awe. "I swear she's already started judging me."

This earned him a small snort from the bed. "She's surely just wondering who's that blurry person holding her, waiting for the other blurry person with the boobs full of milk to feed her again."

He offered her another scowl, but really, all he could think about was how beautiful _she_ still managed to be, even drained as she looked, her hair a total mess, her face marked with exhaustion and her recent exertion. He intended to make some kind of remark on her tendency to be so practical about absolutely everything, but ended up simply staring at her, the mother of his child, wondering if one could OD on too much love within a short period of time.

Olivia smirked and shook her head slightly. "Get that look off your face."

"What look?" he asked dreamily, still staring at her without blinking.

"The look that led the two of us into making this one," she indicated with a tilt of her chin, even though she still hadn't moved, half her face pressed into her pillow.

He could only grin. "Ah, but I intend for you to pop out two or three more of these, a real little tribe of Bishop, so you should get used to that look."

She actually groaned at this, grimacing slightly, even though a smile remained on her face. "Ugh. I'm afraid the events of the day have closed _that_ door for some time."

He frowned. "Really? From what I saw, it looked like it actually _opened _that door rather widely for a while there, just enough to get that one's head out."

She actually buried her face into her pillow then as she groaned more loudly and discontentedly. "You're disgusting," she moaned, the sound of her voice muffled.

"I'm handsome," he countered her, now grinning foolishly as he came to stand right next to her bed, and when she turned her head to look up at him again, he wasn't surprised to see her smiling too, even though she still wore a disapproving look towards what he had said.

"You're disgustingly handsome," she muttered. "And your babies' heads are way too big, to be honest with you."

He turned his eyes back to Henrietta, who had actually started getting drowsy in his arm, as if the sound of their voices was lulling her to sleep. "Don't listen to mommy," he whispered. "Your head is perfectly sized."

Movements at the corner of his eyes made him look back at Olivia, unsurprised to see that she had sat up on her bed, and was now holding out her hands expectedly. He obliged without hesitation, handing her the sleepy infant without any of the awkwardness he had expected himself to feel upon carrying such a tiny being.

She felt so natural in hands, as if she had always belonged there, with them. It was as if she was always meant to be here, part of their life; and judging by the ease with which Olivia was now holding her, he knew she felt it too.

She had brought her legs up to rest the baby on her thighs over the covers, and already, she seemed to have forgotten he was in the room with them. He watched, transfixed, as Olivia brought her face close to Etta's, until the tip of her nose touched the minuscule rosy flesh that made up their daughter's nose, and she moved slowly, gently brushing their skin together. She then raised her head a little, pressing her lips upon her hair, lingering there; she closed her eyes, breathing in deeply. He obviously wasn't the only one who had fallen deeply in love.

And as he watched them, he corrected himself.

_This _was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.


	37. Nightmares

**A/N:** Written pretty quickly today just because 4x22 happened and I have a lot of feelings. Stay tuned, we have a long hiatus in front of us, you'll see more from me xD

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><p><strong>NIGHTMARES<strong>

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><p>Lately, Olivia had come to dread the night in a whole new way.<p>

It was not that she wasn't accustomed to nightmares; considering her life and the atrocities that seemed to be following her around no matter the universe or the timeline she lived in, she'd had her fair share of night woes through the years, which often resulted in bouts of insomnia that very few things could fight off. Peter had told her years ago about the night terrors he used to experience as a child. She was still completely unprepared when they decided to make their comeback, in the aftermath of her 'temporary death'.

No matter how healthy and safe she was, Peter now woke up almost every night, trashing around and choking out her name in this heartbroken croak that never failed to squeeze her insides, her heart aching at his distress. She let him cling to her, in the dark of night, his body shivering violently against hers as he buried his face in the crook of her neck and clenched his arms around her in a death grip; all she could do was draw soothing circles upon the sweaty expanse of his back, her fingers often ending up curled up into the damp mass of his hair, her lips pressed to his shoulder, tasting the salt of his skin.

It took her a while to find ways to really calm him down, once she realized that repeatedly telling him that she was fine, that it was just a bad dream, wasn't doing much. She had started taking his hand in hers, bringing it between them, and making him press his palm upon that small spot on her lower stomach that was getting firmer and more prominent with every passing day; she always lay her hand atop his, intertwining their fingers as she moved, uncurling herself from against his chest to bring her face to his. She then nuzzled his nose with hers, comfortingly, murmuring the same words over and over again. She had changed her motto from '_I'm fine' _to '_We're okay, Peter. We're okay._'

When his breathing had slowed down and his muscles had started to relax, she would let him hug her again, his hand still firmly placed upon her growing bump, his breath a sweet and scorching caress against her neck, and she went back to stroking his hair slowly, whispering in his ear '_please don't dream tonight…please don't dream tonight…please don't dream tonight…_'

He always fell back asleep long before she did.


	38. One Friday Night

**A/N: **I was going through my drabbles and ficlets and realized I never actually posted this one here. I wrote this back in February, long before we ever heard about baby (or grown) Etta, so rereading it changed me into goo, hence me thinking I should share it. Also, it was written as a birthday present, so it's overly fluffy :'D It takes place in season 3, not 4, somewhere between 6B and OS.

I'm working on my 'official' hiatus fic at the moment, so hopefully you'll see more from me soon. Until then, enjoy the sugar ;)

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><p><strong>ONE FRIDAY NIGHT<strong>

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><p>The room was soon filled with screams of terror and pain, which caused Olivia to smirk in amusement. When skin started to tear open and blood flowed out in very unnatural red gushes, she almost snorted in derision. But she was distracted by the sudden change in the pattern Peter's hand had been tracing on her back.<p>

Well, _tracing_ might not be the right word for it; to be honest, whenever he did that, 'massaged' her back while they watched TV, it felt more like he was trying to dig a hole in there. She kept telling herself that she should let him know about her dislike of this habit, but most of the time, she was way too cozy, cuddled up with him on her couch, her stomach full of delicious food, her mood brightened even more by the two glasses of wine she had usually drunk by that time. She didn't have the heart to let him know how she sometimes got the urge to cut his hand off, especially when she very much loved his hands at other times. Very much, yes.

But right now, his circling motion simply stopped abruptly, his fingers digging painfully into her back as he grunted in disgust; Olivia, on the other hand, hissed in pain, swiflty rolling over, head still on his laps, ready to scowl at him for being so rough on her back. But she stopped, taking in his sudden pallor and grimace, as his eyes remained glued on the screen. She briefly glanced back at it herself. The poor woman now laid dead on the floor, her stomach nothing but a wide, bloody hole, and there was a three year old child just as bloody sitting there in front of her.

Really, she should have known better than have sex with an astronaut who had been infected by some alien DNA or something.

Olivia turned her head again to look up at Peter, whose grimace was almost hilarious.

"Seriously?" she chuckled. "Of all the movies we've seen, _this_ is what grosses you out?"

He lowered his gaze to meet her eyes. "I find this eerie."

She couldn't help another chuckle. "Oh c'mon, we _had_ a case like this one, not even two weeks after we met, remember? A woman 'gave birth' to a baby who turned into an old man and died within minutes. Except that it wasn't an alien thing, but some kind of genetic modification."

"Oh, I remember," he said, pressing the mute button, as his other hand got lost in her hair again. "Maybe that's why it's rubbing me the wrong way, because I know this kind of things happen."

She shook her head, smirking again. "What's wrong, Peter, are you afraid you could possibly father babies who grow inexplicably fast?"

He gave her a look, as if he wasn't amused by her smart remarks, but the twinkle in his eyes told her that he actually was. "Hey, you should be the one worrying about that possibility, not me."

This caused her to snort again. "True, that would be my uterus exploding." She brought a hand to his face then, scratching his stubble with her fingernails. "But it's not like it's going to happen any time soon, right?"

He tilted his head then, squinting his eyes, giving her an intent look. And then he said, very seriously: "Maybe we should make a baby."

An angel passed, as a very _pregnant_ pause followed his statement.

There was a small smile on his lips, as if he was just joking around, but Olivia knew him enough by now to read him, and she could tell that part of him meant it; that, plus the fact that the hand that wasn't entangled in her hair had found its way under her black top, his palm pressed possessively over the plane of her lean stomach.

She wrinkled her nose. "What about _no_," she told him seriously, but keeping a soft smile on. "Let's save the Universes first, okay?"

"But a baby would be so cute," he continued, his thumb tracing circles around her navel. "Especially if he had your eyes and my sense of humor."

She couldn't help it; she chuckled again, finding him more than a little endearing at that instant. He looked like a child asking if he could get a puppy for Christmas. Except that this would be no puppy, and they both knew it.

"A baby would be very cute for sure, and also oh, so life consuming," she replied, patting his cheek a bit derisively, before dropping her hand to his chest, just over his heart. "Plus, we already have a baby. He's probably very high right now, dancing naked in your living room."

Peter's soft smile had turned into a mischievous smirk, as his fingers moved slowly, starting to slip under the hem of her sweat pants, and she bit down her lip. "Alright, let's practice making babies, then," he said in a suggestive tone.

She could keep on playing that game for a long time, too. "I'm pretty sure we got the hang of it by now."

His fingers had definitely made their way downward now, even though she was still partially protected by the presence of her panties…not that it did much to keep her heart from beating suddenly much faster, as a very familiar and very welcomed warmth spread through her, starting low within herself. This was definitely one of these times when she loved his hands alright.

He had leaned down to bring his mouth closer to hers, breathing in the longing sigh that soon escaped her lips as he started to trespass her panties too. "Practice makes perfect…" he whispered with a cheeky grin. A grin that she swiftly made disappear by effectively attacking his mouth, both her arms coming up to wrap themselves around his neck, as she attempted to get closer to him, much closer.

Soon, she wasn't mostly lying down on the couch anymore, but definitely sitting on his lap, the angle of their embrace quite awkward, but none of them really cared. She did care however when all of a sudden, his hands weren't deliciously working on her anymore, both splaying over her back, and she swallowed back a frustrated groan. Pulling away slightly, she offered him a questioning look. His expression was way too serious again.

"In all seriousness," he said then, softly. "What about babies?"

Her chest still heaving slightly, Olivia sighed, shoulders slumping. She brought both her hands to his face, though, unable not to feel a small, painful squeeze within her chest. "Peter…" she whispered, shaking her head a little. "I won't even let myself think farther than each Friday nights we get to spend together, doing this, being all coupley and pretending we have some kind of a normal life." His eyes were too intense, and she could feel his heart beating too fast, too, their chests close as they were. She offered him a sad smile, her thumbs caressing the hairless skin of his cheeks. "You know how I feel about children, and you know how I feel about you. I just…I honestly can't project myself that far right now."

She knew he understood. Their lives were anything but normal, to be honest, but they both needed this, needed these evenings when they could pretend for a few hours. And maybe that was why he was being insistent on this matter, because wasn't having babies something normal couples did?

Sadly, they were not normal enough for that, not right now in any case, and they both knew it.

Peter smiled then, deciding to put an end to the heavy tension. "And how do you feel about me, exactly?" he asked, cheekily, his hands traveling again over her back, and she rewarded him with an approving smile, shifting again until she was straddling him.

"I feel strongly enough to put myself at risk of having an accelerated pregnancy pretty much every night," she said, teasingly, pressing an unhurried kiss upon his lips.

One of his hands had come up to her face, his thumb tracing her cheekbone in a gentle caress that always made her heart ache the most delicious ache. "You love it, though," he said softly, with a smile that was even softer, and Olivia swore she could just drown in his eyes, surely would someday.

She leaned forward slightly, gently nuzzling his nose with hers. "Yeah…I love it," she whispered back, and they both knew what she was truly saying.

"Good," he nodded, planting a kiss on her nose. "Because I love it too," and on these words, he wrapped his arms firmly around her waist and pushed himself up, bringing her along with him. "Time for practice!"

The sound of her laughter soon filled the room, until they morphed into something else, the movie long forgotten.

It often was.


	39. Dandelions

**A/N: **I'm finally being defeated by work and school, it was bound to happen. Someday, maybe I'll get to write more than drabbles again, but for now, I guess I'll take what I can get so I don't go insane. This is 5x01-ish.

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><p><strong>DANDELIONS<strong>

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><p>The grass burns.<p>

Where there had been life under their feet only moments ago, there is no more. Green turns into yellow, each strand soon shriveling as if in agony, a mere projection of the pain that is now oozing out of the woman standing above them, the one draining their every fiber until there is nothing left. The energy she's releasing is so intense that it isn't enough, and so they burn.

This invisible and deadly wave spreads around Olivia like a cancer, the growing dark circle at their feet soon distorting as she starts moving again, like everybody else in the vicinity. Chaos has erupted, but she doesn't see it, doesn't care. There is a frenzy in her steps, just like there is in her voice as she calls their daughter's name, over and over again. Her whirl of emotions fills the air with smoke, as all these running feet shake the burning ground.

Gone is the little girl who blew flowers away, filling the sky with her innocent dreams; all that is left is her mother's desperate wrath, her father's helpless agony, and the ashes that swirl up their ankles.

There are no more dandelion seeds dancing with the wind.


	40. Foot Massage

**A/N:** I've started a 'drabble challenge' to keep me writing every day, so if it goes well, I should be posting one drabble a day for a month. I've asked fellow Fringies to give me prompts, so expect a lof of fluff from me, starting now xD Thank you for reading, or to those of you who review! :')

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><p><strong>FOOT MASSAGE<strong>

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><p>"Peter?"<p>

Peter turned his eyes away from the TV, a bit reluctantly. He had never been what you would call a sport fan, but there just was something about hockey. He'd spent almost a year in Canada when he was in his early twenties, and the time he'd spent there had been enough to make him almost as passionate about the sport as any true Canadian. It had faded through the years, but whenever he stumbled upon a hockey game on TV, he simply couldn't resist.

He focused (most) of his attention back on Olivia though, offering her an inquisitive look, immediately noticing the slight scowl on her face. She had piled up a bunch of cushions on the other side of the couch to lean against while she read, her feet on his laps. The open book was now resting upon the very prominent curve of her stomach, and the way she was glaring at him clearly indicated he had done something wrong.

"What?" He frowned, a small surge of panic rising in his chest, mentally and frantically checking for all the things he was supposed to do and may have forgotten.

Being around an almost forty-weeks pregnant, hormonal woman had given him more than enough reason to fear for a sudden unleashing of her emotions. He had bought her the two jars of peanut butter she had requested, though, and when he had taken a shower earlier, he had doubled checked the room, making sure he'd picked up his wet towel from the floor –_"How exactly am I supposed to pick up your stuffs when I can barely sit down to pee anymore?!"_

"Remember that time I told you about how I wasn't so fond of the way you rubbed my back?" She asked him with a slight note of accusation, as if she still felt offended for all these times he had 'burrowed' his hand into her back, even though it had been over two years ago.

"…yes?" From what he could hear, something exciting had just happened on screen, but he didn't dare look away from Olivia's heated stare, not even to throw a glance at the score.

She sighed exasperatedly, then, throwing her hands in front of her, pointing at… "My _feet_, Peter!" She exclaimed. "Are you trying to break my toes?"

He looked down at his laps, only realizing now that while his mind had been focused on the game, he had indeed started massaging her feet distractedly. Well, it had been his intentions, anyway.

He looked back at her with a small pout. "I thought pregnant ladies loved foot massages. Swollen ankles and everything."

She huffed humorlessly, swiftly moving her feet away from his loosened grip, slipping her toes under his thigh instead. "After nine months of this, I thought you'd have realized by now that all these pregnancy myths are a bunch of _crap_. They don't apply to me at all."

And on these words, Olivia settled back deeper into her cushions, bringing her book back up, balancing it on her huge belly, while her other hand went to the jar of pickles. She picked one, which she then dipped into the jar of peanut butter, before pushing the whole thing into her mouth, chewing loudly.

Obviously, they didn't apply to her _at all_.


	41. Whipped Cream

**A/N:** Blablabla

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><p><strong>WHIPPED CREAM<strong>

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><p>This year, Peter spends his birthday alone.<p>

There are people around him, people who once upon a time celebrated such events with cakes and silly hats and...'early-morning celebrations'. But the kind of loneliness he feels is one that resides in your bones even when you're surrounded.

He tries not to care, well too aware of the fact that a birthday is the very last thing any of them could care about, these days. What hurts at that instant isn't the loneliness, but the recurring thoughts of his previous birthdays, especially the last one. It had happened only a few months before the Purge.

He remembers walking into the kitchen despite being forbidden to do so, and finding his girls elbows deep into whipped cream –especially Etta.

Olivia was nicely decorated as well, but it was mostly because she had been attempting to stop their daughter from repeatedly plunging her small hands into the bowl and eating handfuls of cream; Etta had been having too much fun showing her mother she would not be tamed so easily. He remembers Olivia's disapproving look when she had noticed him, but instead of scowling him for walking in the kitchen, she had said what she often said, her face spattered with whipped cream:

_"How did your mother survive you?"_

She hadn't, actually, but he knew what she meant. He had joined her at the kitchen table as she gave up trying to control Henrietta, who dove right back into the bowl.

_"For one thing, she never tried to bake with me. Way too hazardous,"_ he had told her with a smug smile, leaning down to kiss some cream off Olivia's nose, being intentionally slow.

Soon, he had felt small –and undoubtedly very sticky- fingers tug at his shirt, and he had looked down at his daughter, whose face was more whipped cream than anything else.

_"It's so yummy daddy!"_ she had exclaimed with that enthusiastic voice that was so her; he had used his index finger to wipe some cream off her cheek, before licking it off.

_"It sure is, Princess,"_ he had agreed with a wink, while Olivia dropped her forehead against his shoulder and sighed in defeat, mumbling something about the two of them always teaming up against her.

He barely catches a glimpse of his wife, today.

It's not enough for him to notice yet again just how thin she's getting, but it is enough to make the relentless and throbbing ache of loss more acute. Walter barely looks at him either, having been shut down too many times by his heartbroken, guilt-stricken son.

Above everything else, what hurts the most is the thought of his baby girl, long gone now. Because spending his birthday alone isn't the problem.

Spending another day without his family is.


	42. Fireplace

**A/N:** Two today! And more fluff for ya ;)

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><p><strong>FIREPLACE<strong>

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><p>Staring at the flames as they moved lazily and gracefully in the hearth, only feet away from where they lay, Olivia could easily have fallen asleep. She was so close to the fire that she felt its warmth, as it slowly dried up the sweat that still layered her skin, and its gentle crackling sounds only added to the drowsy atmosphere.<p>

Sleep would not be an option for a while, though. There was another source of warmth behind her, in the form of the man who was pinned against her back, his nose pressed in the curve between her shoulder and neck. And while his hand had been immobile on her stomach moments ago, if not for the indolent way his thumb brushed the underside of her breast, it was now on the move again.

As his fingers drew patterns on her shivering skin, she couldn't help a sound that was between a chuckle and pained groan from escaping her.

"Seriously?" She asked, turning her head to try and look at him, but their position wouldn't allow it. "My ass is suffering from severe rug rash right now."

Peter's hand moved again, cupping the sensitive flesh in his palm and giving it an affectionate squeeze. "My bad. I did offer to be the one with my ass on the rug, though."

She wiggled in his arms and hands, turning around so she could face him, quickly entwining their legs to keep their warmth mingled –and offering her sore behind to the soothing heat of the flames.

With his face inches away from hers, she now saw the smile on his lips and the amused glint in his eyes. But beyond it, there always was this insatiable hunger, a look that never failed to liquefy every inch of her, even when he didn't say a word or didn't make a move.

"What about that big bed that occupies most of the room?" she whispered with a smile of her own. "Mattresses are not as overrated as you think."

His fingers really were unstoppable, now lightly tracing her spine, while his gaze kept on matching the heat of the fire behind her. "We can use a mattress at home. Vermont is all about rugs and fireplaces. And sore asses."

She chuckled again, bringing a hand up to his stubbly cheek as she shook her head. "I still can't believe you convinced me to do this."

Even though there still was a small smile on her lips, there also was a note in her voice that contained everything she was not saying, everything they had left behind in Boston, if only for twelve hours.

His gaze became even more intense then; in the dim and soothing light of the fire, he was more beautiful than ever.

"Do you wish you'd chosen differently?"

Just like her, there was a hidden meaning in his words, one that she heard as clearly as she felt the regular beat of his heart against her palm, her hand now resting on his chest.

He knew how frustrated it made her, to be so off balance with the entire world, being only "sixty percents" of the person she used to be, according to her psychologist.

She shook her head almost imperceptibly, though, offering him a reassuring smile. "No," she told him. And she meant it.

Because she might be off balance with the entire universe, she was perfectly in phase with him.

And that was really all she needed.


	43. Simon

**A/N:** To all the Etta/Simon shippers out there xD

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><p><strong>SIMON<strong>

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><p>Peter did not like Simon Foster.<p>

Well, that was not entirely true. He actually really liked the guy, up until very recently.

It would have been hard for him not to like him, when Simon had literally thrown himself into the Amber to take his place. That fact alone had been enough for Peter to _love _the man, long before they went back to free him; by then, Etta had told him so many anecdotes about how he'd been watching out for her all these years that all Peter had wanted to do was shake his hand and thank him wholeheartedly. On top of that, he had soon come to realize that Simon simply was a very likeable guy, smart and funny, efficient and resourceful. Basically, he fitted perfectly in their freshly -and dysfunctional- reunited team.

He had liked Simon very much, until it came to his attention that the other man had apparently done much more than just _watch out_ for his daughter, these past few years.

It became suddenly evident to him that day when he looked up from the row of weapons he had been working on and noticed just how close Etta and Simon were standing, farther away in the room, discussing their upcoming operation over a mess of papers. There barely was an inch separating their bodies, and Peter did not miss the way Simon's hand regularly wandered off the table to distractedly go around his daughter's waist, brushing her hip, or the back of her 'pants'. Not to mention the way they spoke to each other, their faces so close they were breathing the same damn air, and then there was that small, cheeky smile on Etta's lips every time he spoke something almost directly into her ear.

Just like that, Peter didn't like Simon anymore.

Instead of making a scene, he sought out his wife. He did not do it because he knew she would be the voice of reason, but because he was so offended by what he had just witnessed that he was convinced the mother of his child would be just as upset.

"And you're only realizing it _now_?" is what Olivia said instead when he shared his concerns with her. "I picked up on that vibe six hours after I was out of the Amber."

This was definitely not the support he had been looking for.

"You cannot possibly be okay with this," he almost grunted. "You should have seen him, he was looking at her like he was ready to just-" He couldn't bring himself to finish that thought, suddenly feeling all kind of nauseated.

Olivia gave him a look. "Oh c'mon. She's not a toddler anymore, she's twenty-four. Are you honestly telling me you thought she never had se-"

"Do _not_ say these words," he stopped her abruptly. "We are not talking about our daughter doing grownup things. I thought we'd made that clear when you were pregnant and we agreed no man would ever touch her."

Unsurprisingly, Peter had really been the only one who'd insisted on that.

Olivia, who actually had been smirking a little up until now -something he hadn't seen in a very, very long time, was losing her smile already. Soon, she was back to being tense, her face pale and grave; the reason behind her sudden change of demeanor became clear when she said: "Well, most of the things we'd planned out for her when I was pregnant didn't exactly turn out like we'd hoped they would."

She had a point. A monumental one, at that.

All of a sudden, Peter felt like an idiot, ranting about this with Olivia, when their relationship was still so unsteady. And there he was, reminding them both yet again of everything that had been lost.

As they stood there, the silence heavy with lingering regrets, some of what he was feeling must have shown on his face, because Olivia's posture eventually relaxed a bit, as did her eyes.

And when she spoke, her voice was quiet and soft: "We were gone for twenty years, Peter. Simon has been part of her life longer than the two of us combined. I know I can't ask you not to act like an overprotective father, but don't give her grief about this. She _is_ an adult, and she will keep on doing whatever she wants, even if you don't approve of it."

He actually found himself smiling faintly and quite fondly upon hearing these words. "Sounds like someone I know."

Almost miraculously, Olivia started smiling again as well, and the gentle look in her eyes instantly made him feel better than he had in a long while. "Well, we did make her together," she said affectionately.

And then she had to add:

"Just think about how stubborn Etta's and Simon's kids are gonna be, though."

Good feeling's gone.

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><p>(Being a nanny has led me to watch Finding Nemo way too many times)<p> 


	44. Tulip

**A/N:** This is what happens when I'm told too many times "omg this is so fluffy!" xD Counter-reaction! Thank you for your support everybody, only a few days left before we get our show back :'D

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><p><strong>TULIP<strong>

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><p>It happens too fast, the way it always does.<p>

In the months that have passed since the Purge, a few months that feel more like several lifetimes spent in hell to them all, almost everything has changed, the familiar like the unfamiliar. Even the most significant places, the ones you should never forget, suddenly look foreign.

That is probably why neither Peter nor Olivia recognize the alley, that haunted place so close to the now long deserted Massive Dynamic. The graffiti, that once covered the entirety of the walls all these years ago, are gone too, painted and drawn over times and times again. The newest drawings that can now be seen are to be expected. Like a growing field, they have bloomed all over the city, all over the country, and rumors say they're already starting to spread worldwide as well.

The Tulips, symbol of Resistance.

To the husband and wife currently hiding in the shadows, it is nothing but a detail to them, especially _now_, when they are forced to be helpless witnesses of what the Observers are doing to one of their own kind, something they've never done before. It's not exactly a surprise; September had it coming.

It is, however, unbearable. All they can do is watch, as the brain of the only person who could help them find their daughter is turned into mush, the way so many Natives' are on a daily basis.

He's still 'alive' when the Observers are finished with him. The fact that they disappear quickly after that is proof enough that it won't be for long, though.

The moment they're gone, Olivia is on the ground, grabbing September's head in her hands; blood is seeping out of his ears and nose in a very slow, thick flow that soon covers her fingers too. His eyes are half-opened, but it is clear that he's already gone, the rise and fall of his chest a treachery.

Olivia doesn't care.

"Where is she?"

She's not asking, she's _demanding_ him.

True to the feral behavior she has been adopting ever since the Purge, having long ago gone back to channeling all of her pain into anger, her voice is guttural, low and menacing. Her fury radiates out of her, causing her body to shake slightly; her face, only inches away from September's, constricts as she stares into the glassy eyes of the brain-dead Observer.

"Please, tell me where she is."

Already,her wrath is changing, morphing into a desperation she cannot hold back anymore, not when it is dawning on her that their last hope of ever finding Etta is dying right there in her hands, and there is nothing she can do but beg him.

"_Please_, _tell me where my baby is_!"

But the only answer she gets is in the sudden yet expected stillness of his chest, and in the vacant look in his eyes that follows, as his body finally gives up. He lies there on the pavement, where a Shapeshifter flaunting Charlie's face had once laid before.

There is silence, then, a long, long stretch of silence, until her intakes of breath become progressively louder and more erratic. She lets go of his head, and it hits the ground with a muffled, nauseating _thump_.

Her bloody fingers disappear into her hair, and she fists it in her hands, curling into herself. A low hum can be heard, now, an agonizing lament that escapes her throat with increasing volume, until it's a full-blown yell of despair that echoes through the alley. A rising, broken sob is what eventually makes it stop.

And just like it had before, the rain begins to fall.

On the walls, the tulips are crying, too.


	45. Spooning

**A/N:** You guys crack me up, in a very endearing way :'D Here is the fluff you've asked for, but don't be surprised if I balance it up again in a near future with more depressing and dark stuffs :p What can I say, I love angst more than fluff, and I regret nothing.

* * *

><p><strong>SPOONING<strong>

* * *

><p>Olivia woke up to a sensation that was becoming eerily familiar, these days.<p>

Her hair was raising at the back of her neck; it was the kind of prickling feeling that normally would make anybody feel uneasy…unless you were safely cuddled up in your bed, fully aware of what was causing it –or rather _who_.

She couldn't help but smile. The soft and serene curling of her lips was the only move she made, keeping her eyes shut. "You know, you're gonna have to stop this," she whispered.

From the quality of the light she could 'see' through her closed eyelids, she guessed it probably was well past her usual wake up time again. Lately, she simply seemed to be needing more sleep…not that there wasn't a very good explanation for such occurrence.

"Stop what?"

Peter's voice, always slightly hoarse at this hour of the day, came from behind her. Actually, it came from _above_ her. She could picture him with perfect clarity, his chin propped up in one of his hands, as he looked down at her –or _stared_, really.

"Watching me sleep like that. It's getting kinda creepy." She knew he could hear the smile in her comment, see in on her lips, too.

He didn't say anything, not yet anyway; he moved quietly instead, bringing his face down. Soon, she felt his nose nuzzling her hair, his weight moving behind her as he pressed himself fully against her back. It caused a shiver to run all the way up her spine, then all the way down, until her every limb was tingling appreciatively.

The feel of his nose now slowly tracing her jaw line was enough to wake up every single nerve in her body, and the warmth of his skin against her own was a sensation she would never get tired of.

She wasn't surprised in the least by his next move, one of his hands slipping over her waist to come press his palm over her lower stomach -which he kept insisting had already gotten firmer. Olivia could only smile a little more broadly, as she rested her own hand over his, intertwining their fingers.

"You can't really blame me…" he eventually said softly, almost directly into her ear. He kept on moving, almost imperceptibly, in a relentless attempt to increase the proximity of their bodies; at that instant, she swore she could have dissolved in his warmth.

His words brought recent images to her mind, though. As always, the fresh memory felt like a sharp and icy thorn puncturing her heart. How she had opened her eyes on the boat, unable to understand neither why she was lying on a table, nor why Peter's face had been tearstained and grief-stricken…or why there was blood all over Walter's hands.

It had come back to her fast, the gunshot and the void, as Peter hugged her to him again and cried his relief in the crook of her neck.

No, she really couldn't blame him.

But they were okay, the three of them. She let him know by pressing his palm a bit more firmly over her stomach, her thumb caressing the top of his hand, and it was her turn to wriggle in his arms, trying to sink deeper into his warmth, always deeper.

The worst was behind them, now.


	46. Scruff

**A/N:** Since you guys are being so incredibly sweet (AND THAT FRINGE IS BACK TONIGHT AND I'M HIGH ON FANGIRL!ENDORPHIN), here's another fluffy one :) Enjoy it while it lasts, tonight's episode is probably going to make my muse depressive all over again. Also, this was typed on my phone while a 2 year old 'combed' my hair, so don't hold it against me.

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><p><strong>SCRUFF<strong>

* * *

><p>Olivia wasn't exactly sure how they had come to be here, doing this, particularly in their state and at this hour, but it had started with one common realization:<p>

The scruff had to go.

She wasn't _mad_ at him, of course; she knew the rash would disappear soon enough, and there didn't seem to be any pain associated with it. But no matter how many times she told him so, Peter was just inconsolable, overtaken by so much guilt that you would think he was responsible for someone's death, instead of the faint redness his facial hair had caused on tender skin.

After witnessing him nearly have a breakdown about it right there in front of her, he had almost run to the bathroom, and she had known at once what he was going to do -or attempt to.

She had also known that letting him hold a razor in his state of exhaustion was more likely to cause him to slit his own throat than successfully shave his face.

And sure enough, by the time she was able to join him, a few minutes later, he was standing in front of the mirror, with too much cream on his face, and a few trails of blood already running down his skin.

This was when she had scowled him disapprovingly, forced him to sit down on the edge of the tub, and taken the razor out of his hand.

"If you're trying to off yourself so you can get out of this situation, think again. There's no way I'm doing this alone, so you let me handle the sharp objects from now on."

"Obviously, you should also exclusively handle the delicate ones, because I suck at this."

"Peter, it's just a small rash," she repeated for the hundredth time, as patiently as she could, focusing on shaving his left cheek without cutting him more than he already was. "It will be gone by tomorrow, if not before."

"It starts with a rash, and next thing you know, there are knives lying around, and small objects to be swallowed all over the place."

"You are being overly dramatic," she chuckled softly, and oh, so very tiredly. Still, she was doing a much better job with the razor than he had been, proceeding slowly and delicately. "She is _fine_, sound asleep again for at least..." she actually looked away from his cheek to glance at her wrist watch. "...one hour and twenty-four minutes. Give or take an hour, obviously."

This caused him to let out a chuckle that sounded more like a strangled groan of despair.

"I don't even know if it's night or day," he admitted. "I lost track about seventeen diapers ago."

"According to the time and the absence of light outside, I'm gonna say it's almost dawn. But don't take my word for it, it's December, so it might as well be 6pm."

As he let out a long, long sigh, he looked ready to fall asleep, sitting on the tub. Truth be told, he was incredibly endearing; his hair was a mess, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, and there was a very strong smell oozing out of him, resulting from all the patches of regurgitated milk decorating his shirt -and from his lack of showering, too.

But Olivia couldn't have cared less, because she was in no better shape, and smelled almost worse.

Despite years of insomnia and working cases for three days straight instead of sleeping, she felt so exhausted she could actually have fallen asleep right on the spot, too. She wasn't even mentioning how raw and painful her nipples were, or the soreness in some very intimate parts of her body that still hadn't subsided completely.

And yet, she couldn't have felt more at peace.

They had no any idea what they were doing, but they were doing it together, as a family; and the tiny, beautiful, perfect human being who was currently sleeping in her cradle outside this door was worth every ache.

She was even worth the fact that they had to get rid of his scruff, when Olivia had always been so fond of it.

_'That's alright'_ she thought then, as Peter actually dropped his heavy head to rest his creamy cheek on her swollen bosom, none of them caring because her shirt was already ruined anyway, tenderly threading her fingers through his hair and resting her own cheek on the top of his head. _'We have years ahead of us to let it grow back.'_


	47. Friends

**A/N**: Thank you so much everybody, for reading and reviewing. I've been writing fics for 10 years, and I've never had a story so close to having 300 reviews, I don't know what to do with myself :')

Oh yes I know! I will keep on writing things xD

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><p><strong>FRIENDS<strong>

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><p>For a while there, Peter had really thought his running days were behind him.<p>

As it turns out...not quite.

When your face is plastered on buildings all over the city, and you and your family have officially been declared '_Public Enemy Number One_' by a bunch of disgruntled bald guys, you end up doing a lot more running.

At least this time, he's not running alone.

Unsurprisingly, he's ahead of Olivia today as they sprint through the streets; she's athletic and fast, but his legs are longer. He's not (too) worried, though. He knows she's right behind him, the staccato of her breathing loud and wheezy, a sound that is worrisome alright, but right at that instant, their asses being chased by frustrated Loyalists comes first on his Worry List.

And so he leads the way, making them take sudden turns at sharp angles to try and lose their tail; he's always been quite good at that. When he passes the entrance of a small alley, he trusts his instincts, darting into it and reaching behind him to grab Olivia's arm and drag her along.

He inwardly thanks the twisted arrangement of this part of the city, as he makes them strut and turn deeper into the thickening darkness, the bleak light of day obstructed by the tall buildings surrounding them. They only come to a wobbly stop when he believes them to be safe.

Olivia's back hits the wall, her chest heaving frenetically, and he hovers over her, keeping steady by leaning his forearm against the bricks near her head, fighting to breathe.

His entire body _hurts_; it feels like minuscule shards of glass are digging into the flesh of his throat and lungs every time he breathes in, the pain even worse whenever he exhales. Fucking air, with its fucking lack of oxygen. Running in these conditions makes the changes in the atmosphere that much more noticeable –and so damn _painful_.

Olivia seems to be having even a harder time than him dealing with this physiological problem, her face constricted in an intense grimace of pain, her breathing raspy and erratic. Instinctively, both of her hands have reached for him, her fists now twisting his shirt in a firm grip. He wants to offer her a few reassuring words, try and calm her down maybe, but he can't speak yet, still fighting his own battle. Even silent communication is impossible, as her eyes remain tightly closed.

Once again, he acts intuitively, bringing the hand that isn't splayed on the wall up to her face. He lightly brushes her rosy skin with his fingertips, seeking her attention, and nothing more.

After all, less than twelve hours have passed since they've had that 'Talk', during which they've agreed that they should try and behave as friendly as possible around each other, especially when their daughter is with them. The term 'friends' is absolutely laughable when it comes to the two of them, but Peter is so desperate to reconnect with her that he's willing to try anything.

As he had intended, Olivia reopens her eyes at the feel of his touch, her gaze instantly -and intensely- locking on his. Before he can move his hand away, one of her own lets go of his shirt, her fingers finding their way around his wrist, and she presses her feverish cheek into his cool palm.

She's still struggling to breathe, they both are, but the contact seems to ease her pain. She keeps on staring at him intently, not even blinking anymore, and within a few, adrenaline-filled seconds, Peter's entire focus shifts from their labored breathing to everything else.

Right now, Olivia is everything else.

Her skin glistens with sweat, flushed with exertion and pain, strands of hair having stuck to her damp temples; her fingers have entrapped his wrist in a steel grip, while her other hand keeps on clutching his clammy shirt. He becomes truly aware now of how very close their bodies are, so close that every rush of hot air that comes out of her parted lips scorches the inside of his palm.

She's radiating heat, mere inches away from him, and her every pore seems to be releasing a scent that is so intimately familiar to him, tugging forcefully at something deep within his guts. He fully realizes that he's in no better shape, exuding similar signals, soon causing her gaze to darken, her breathing actually deepening.

He feebly attempts to clear his mind, to maybe try and command his limbs to move so that he can step away from her. But he feels a literal tug, then, when her fingers gently and yet _very_ purposefully, pull on his shirt.

His body responds, moving forward instead of away, until their hipbones meet, and she finds herself pressed harder into the wall; he leans his damp forehead against hers, never once moving his eyes away from hers, their heavy breaths soon melding.

Being 'friends' is obviously going to be a piece of cake.


	48. Grocery Shopping

**A/N:** Updating 3 months later something I was supposed to update everyday for a month, this is absolutely my style :D In my defense, this fall semester has been rough. But it's in the past now, so I'm having more time to write, and I'm going to try and finish this drabble challenge of mine before the end of the hiatus (I still have 20 prompts). Keep a lookout for my new oneshot coming soon as well :D

Thank you all so much for your support, I am grateful for having such wonderful readers :')

* * *

><p><strong>GROCERY SHOPPING<strong>

* * *

><p>"I wanna get <em>down<em>!"

Unsurprisingly, Etta was already running out of patience, only seven minutes after they'd entered the grocery store.

Olivia should have known this docile behavior wouldn't last, her three year old holding the grocery list and nodding approvingly to every item her mother picked up from the shelves and presented to her. Now, she was antsy to get out, fueled by her never ending source of energy.

At first, Olivia ignored her pleas –or rather grumpy commands- to be taken out of her seat, keeping her focus on finding everything that was on the list –that she had picked up from the floor after Etta had thrown it down in an act of defiance. It only took four additional minutes of this, pushing her cart through the aisles while her child squirmed and whined as if in agony, demanding more and more loudly to be let out and trying to jump off on her own despite the fact that she was tightly buckled in, before Olivia finally gave in.

Usually, she tried her best not to cave in –that was more of Peter's specialty and Etta knew it, but usually, going grocery shopping with their overactive three year old wasn't assigned to Olivia either, and she highly suspected that her father rarely made her sit in the cart.

In all honesty, she was in no mood to spend the next thirty minutes hearing her get more and more frustrated, which would end up with her probably screaming and crying dramatically, while fellow mothers all around the store gave her looks that would be either sickeningly understanding or plainly judgmental.

Which was why she let her child get down, feeling accordingly incompetent for doing so, but after all, she was only human.

"Stay close to the cart, baby," she instructed her, maybe a bit distractedly, because wherever they went, Etta usually always stayed by her or Peter's side.

Her eyes quickly moved back to the row of pasta, trying to decide if they needed spaghetti, or the butterfly-shaped ones that usually had a lot of success with their daughter.

When she looked away from the boxes to ask her what she would rather have her father cook for them, Etta wasn't in the aisle anymore.

One moment of inattention, and Etta was gone.

This second of pure fright that gripped her as she realized that her child wasn't by her side anymore also turned into an odd instant of clarity for Olivia.

The small stir of inadequacy she had felt by simply letting her down was morphing into crushing certainty, a feeling she often felt on and off, ever since her daughter's birth, every time she couldn't soothe her cries, or felt overwhelmed by motherhood for so many reasons.

Because she knew, deep inside, that she didn't deserve her, didn't deserve this incredible little girl, didn't deserve to be a mother; she just wasn't programmed that way. And this, her baby girl being suddenly gone, it was her punishment for even _trying_.

The feeling was intense and overpowering, looming, but it was also fleeting. With her next intake of breath, she snapped out of it, immediately abandoning her cart.

"_Etta_?" she called out loudly, swiftly turning a corner, and realizing right away that she had entered the 'candy aisle'; new shivers broke under her skin as relief poured through her.

Etta stood in the middle of the aisle, pointing up at one of the shelves.

"Can we get candy for gwampa, mama?"

Her daughter was obviously completely oblivious to the fright she had just given her, and Olivia fought the urge to drop to her knees and squeeze her against her chest. Etta did give her a slightly quizzical look, though, and she looked so much like Peter when she did that.

Olivia forced herself to smile, pushing away what remained of her fears, feeling somewhat silly now for having these thoughts in the first place.

After reminding her daughter of how important it was for her to never leave her or her daddy's sight when they were out of the house, Olivia agreed to get a bag of candies for Walter –not red vines but purple ones, Etta having long ago converted her grandfather to her 'favowite colow'. Next, they went and got bread to make sandwiches, the odd warning Olivia had felt already almost forgotten.

Tomorrow, they were going to the park.


	49. Airplane

**A/N**: During this (last *sobs*) hiatus, I've been marathoning Fringe from the beginning again; I'm past Entrada now, but season 2 was marvelous to rewatch, so I'm full of season 2 P/O feels, hence this drabble I just scribbled.

The prompt was: Travelling by airplane.

* * *

><p><strong>AIRPLANE<strong>

* * *

><p>Olivia had reached a state of restlessness that reminded Peter of the first few days they had spent together, almost eighteen months ago.<p>

She was so impatient that she seemed ready to crawl out of her skin, the kind of impatience that had led her to jump off buildings in the past, or to 'simply' engage in a frenzied, running chase, if no building were available. The worst thing she could be forced to do at that instant was to sit in a confined place and wait it out.

They were stuck in an airplane. They had been for the past hour, and would be for the next two.

There was no way around this; none of them enjoyed wasting three hours in a plane, but it remained the fastest way for them to go back from Florida to New York. What seemed to be a lifetime ago, he might have used this break to get some sleep –they _all_ needed sleep, having been awake for almost three days straight, now, but there was no way he could rest.

Even if he hadn't been feeling quite agitated himself as time ticked away and that mysterious building got closer and closer to being sucked from their universe and into the other one, his quiet concern for Olivia would have been more than enough to trouble him alright.

He kept a steady gaze on her, as she sat opposite him, a stare she was plainly aware of; she had long ago chosen to ignore it, though, as nothing she could say or no look she could give him would be convincing enough to make him stop, and they both knew it.

He stared at her, unable not to remember that first flight they had been on together, from Iraq to Boston, all these months ago. It was all so similar, and yet so different.

Just like she had back then, she kept using the phone, inquiring on any update in New York, despite the fact that the situation remained unchanged so far. She constantly fidgeted, too, her eyes looking through the window, though there was nothing to see but the dimming light of dusk, her twitchy fingers going up to her forehead and hair again and again and again.

It looked the same, but it couldn't have felt more different to him; _he_ couldn't have more felt more differently, especially when it came to her.

He knew her, now. She wasn't just an obviously stubborn –and irritating- FBI agent who was dragging him away against his will from what had been a pretty damn good deal in Iraq, forcing him to go see the man he only called Father because of genetic obligations.

He knew the meaning of each of these movements she made, understood her body language, felt the burn caused by that look in her eyes, even when she wasn't looking at him.

There was a darkness surrounding her now that hadn't been there when they had first met, one that had begun to form the instant John died in her arms, and had only thickened as the months went by, and the deaths multiplied. Charlie's had been the latest, most damaging blows in a series of damaging blows, adding more weight on her already crushed shoulders. Never before had he met someone so haunted.

And yet, she shone brighter in his eyes than anyone he had ever known


	50. Asphalt

**A/N:** No more fluff until you guys start talking to me again :p HAPPY NEW YEAR FRINGIES :')

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><p><strong>ASPHALT<strong>

* * *

><p>That night, Peter drinks the way most people drink in bars like this one, downing glass after glass with a heavy scowl, dark shadows on his face and all around his crushed figure.<p>

He drinks, hoping it will allow him not to feel. He drinks so that he can forget. But he's out of luck; they all are.

No matter how many times the whiskey goes down his throat, the images flash in his head, a punch in the gut, a hand squeezing his heart and lungs, making it hard to breathe and crushing his will to even try.

The alcohol numbs his body, but not his mind; Olivia remains dead, lying broken on the asphalt.


	51. Tactless

**A/N:** Just emptying my fics folder of unposted things xD This ficlet was actually "done", just never posted, but I have so many chunks of unfinished oneshots, it's quite sad *dramatic sigh* This was written about a year ago, after 4x20 I believe, when Olivia's pregnancy had yet to be announced to the characters.

...

**TACTLESS**

...

As they found themselves facing yet another impending apocalypse, they could always count on Walter to distract them from the idea of collapsing universes and the grim prospect of twelve billions deaths.

And as usual, he did so in the most embarrassing and tactless fashion imaginable.

"Olivia, have you been menstruating?"

Silence fell on the lab.

Peter, who had been discussing the meaning of a new set of data with Astrid, raised his eyes from the documents spread on the table to briefly stare at his father, before quickly moving his gaze to Olivia, who was standing at the other end of the lab with her phone pressed to her ear, a hand on her hip.

For a moment, she simply seemed frozen to the spot, a small frown soon wrinkling her brow, as if she wasn't sure she had heard correctly.

Peter hoped he hadn't heard correctly.

After another floating instant, Olivia finally moved, bringing the phone down to cover it with her palm, hiding the conversation from whoever was at the other end of the line. "Pardon me?" she asked Walter, still frowning in honest puzzlement.

"Have you been menstruating?" Walter repeated without the slightest hesitation, and his tone was as grave as the look on his face. He was holding a piece of paper in his hand, that Peter knew had to be some sort of results.

Now that it had been confirmed to everybody in the room that they had actually _not __misheard_ Walter's question the first time around, it was a matter of microseconds before Olivia's face turned into a shade of dark pink, as mortification swiftly settled in. Through her embarrassment, she threw a quick glance at Peter, who honestly felt just as mortified as her at his father's complete lack of tact.

He knew he should have said something, reprimanded Walter for speaking the words in the first place, but if the look on Olivia's face was any indication, her aggravation quickly turning into irritation, it was better for everybody present to remain quiet for now, until she was through with the old man.

She brought the phone back to her ear and muttered "Let me call you back," before her hand went back down to her hip, her face still flushed, her eyes now murderous. "Alright Walter," Olivia said bluntly, scowling. "How is this relevant in any way with what we're dealing with right now."

"It is not," Walter replied assuredly. "Not exactly, though it might explain the strange display of your abilities lately. I just got the results of the tests I ran on your blood, and you are experiencing a very high hGC level, which cannot be ignored."

"What is that supposed to mean, exactly?" Olivia asked, a hand swooping in front of her, now clearly irritated; she often was when the scientific aspect of things escaped her.

"Pregnancy, dear," Walter explained, remaining abnormally calm, and for the second time within the last five minutes, Olivia seemed to simply froze into space, a hand still up in the air.

Peter, still leaning upon the table, was as equally frozen, his eyes moving from Walter to Olivia, not quite able to feel anything just yet, content to simply watch the progression of the exchange until his state of shock passed.

"Such a high level of human chorionic gonadotrophin is typical during the early stage of pregnancy, hence my question about your cycle." Walter continued as if he was teaching one of his science classes, until he smiled a bit goofily. "I wouldn't have prodded otherwise, though now, given the circumstances, I feel that it might have been appropriate for me to warn you and Peter that condoms are not a hundred percents effective."

Peter knew he _really_ had to speak up at this point, and he tried to; he even had his mouth open, and a few words lodged in his throat, but nothing came out.

Olivia was shaking her head now, offering Walter her best frown, as a confused smile pulled at the corners of her lips. "This is ridiculous Walter," she said, almost chuckling. "I'm not pregnant."

"So you _have_ been menstruating, then?"

Olivia opened her mouth to answer, traces of her smile remaining on her lips, but very soon, she mimicked Peter in her inability to speak, her eyes getting lost in the distance; for the first time since Walter had asked her that question, it was obvious that she was finally focusing on its meaning itself, rather than on how inappropriate it was.

It wasn't long at all before her smile started to falter, and the warm color that had invaded her cheeks quickly receded, too, replaced by a pallor that soon turned greenish.

Her gaze moved then, to find Peter's, almost instinctively seeking him out, and the look they exchanged didn't say much beside:

_Well, shit._

Apparently, the almost horror-struck faces of his son and his girlfriend were all the confirmation Walter needed, because next thing they knew, he had dropped his serious mask and had let out a gleeful shout of happiness that filled the lab. He was on Olivia within seconds, hugging her tight and already babbling excitingly about the benefits of carrying a Bishop child, while she just stood there, squeezed, completely motionless, and looking about to experience some kind of morning sickness.

Peter, for his part, couldn't do anything but stare, assuming that he would begin feeling normal emotions again eventually, but not just yet. He watched as Walter let go of Olivia, beaming so foolishly, with his eyes so full of happy tears, and his hands soon came up to her ashy face to cup both her cheeks.

"Thank you," he said, with sheer sincerity, his grin now quivering, and then, he simply started weeping.

At this point, Olivia had no other choice but to let him hug her again as he wept against her shoulder, and she patted his back kindly, saying things like '_It's okay, Walter, there there'_, her own shock obviously starting to dissipate, if the intense mix of emotion now constricting her face was any indication.

Mostly, she looked terrified, and Peter couldn't help but think about what he had told her mere hours ago.

_I will not lose you again, Olivia._

Peter only moved his eyes away from the scene when he felt a hand on his arm, and only then did he remember that Astrid was still standing right next to him. He met her gaze, and wasn't exactly surprised to see that her eyes had welled up with tears, too, although like him and Olivia, she clearly couldn't bring herself to feel as ecstatic as Walter about the unexpected news, not _now_.

She smiled at him, though, wordlessly, and he tried to smile back, but what he felt on his face surely resembled more a grimace than a smile.

His eyes quickly went back to Olivia and Walter, still locked in their teary embrace. Olivia seemed to be getting a grip on herself already, unsurprisingly, and she was speaking to Walter soothingly, as if he was the one who had just learned he was pregnant and needed reassurance.

As his own shock finally started to slowly recede, all Peter wanted to do was get Olivia away from his father and entrap her in his own arms, and then possibly force her to hide somewhere safe and away from any kind of danger –Jones being on top of the list.

But even now, when they hadn't even talked together about this rather big change of event, had barely _glanced_ at each other, Peter knew that she would never let this take her away from the battlefield.

Maybe when they were done saving the universes, they would take a moment to freak out accordingly.

Then, they might even allow themselves to dream.


	52. North Pole

**A/N:** Oh well. Merry Christmas :D

...

* * *

><p><strong>NORTH POLE<br>**

* * *

><p>"Daddy?"<p>

Turning away from the sizzling pan he had been focused on, Peter looked at his four-year-old daughter, who had been silently drawing at the kitchen table for the last fifteen minutes, while he got dinner ready. A bit too silently, he realized then. His daughter was a lot of things, and chatty was definitely one of them.

He noticed the serious look on her face, that small crease between her eyes, and the familiar way she pursed her lips.

"What is it, sweetheart?"

"Can we send my Christmas card to the North Pole?"

He smiled at her, dropping his spoon to join her at the table. "Absolutely. I thought we'd mailed your list to Santa already, though?"

She shook her head. "No, this one's for grandpa." Then, as always somewhat unaware of the meaning behind her father's sudden silence, she added: "I just think he's there with Santa. He told me once that's where candies came from, from the North Pole I mean. So, he's probably there."

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, a reaction he still couldn't quite control, he looked at the drawing Etta had sketched. He recognized the figures she had drawn without difficulty. There he was, holding Etta's "hands", Olivia on the other side of her. She had even attempted to draw her bump, which turned out to be a massive circle that would make her mother cringe, with a tiny stick figure in it. On the other part of the card, she had drawn Gene, Walter, and another man who was unmistakably Santa Claus, all surrounded with candy canes and what he recognized as red vines.

"Can you help me spell '_I miss you'_?"


	53. Fur Ball

**A/N**: I wrote fluff for fluff's sake. We all need fluff sometimes. *off to kill someone fictional now*

...

* * *

><p><strong>FUR BALL<strong>

* * *

><p>Something cold and wet was touching the tip of her nose.<p>

Olivia woke up with a start, her opened eyes immediately finding the source of the disturbance. She instinctively and abruptly moved her head back, "What the…" she started loudly, her mind still fuzzy with sleep.

The cat, or kitten, really, didn't seem bothered at all by her strong reaction; it seemed more curious than anything else, walking closer to her head again, apparently well decided on getting another good sniff at her face.

Olivia moved her head away again, staring at the ball of fur in disbelief, eventually pushing herself up to a sitting position. She spotted Peter, standing in the doorway. He was leaning against the frame in a way that was too casual, considering how much trouble he was about to be in.

"Did you bring this here?" She asked, or rather demanded, as the kitten bravely attempted to climb her thigh, tiny claws digging through the sheet and the thin fabric of her pants. She unceremoniously grabbed it by the loose skin of its neck, (throwing) dropping it farther away onto the mattress.

"Don't call her 'this', you'll hurt her little cat's feelings," he said, clearly more amused than worried about his future punishment.

But said little cat did not seem upset in the least by Olivia's obvious rejection, already trotting back towards her, though her progress came to an abrupt end when she got herself entangled in the sheets.

Olivia looked back at Peter with indignation. "A cat. A _cat_, Peter?!" She simply couldn't wrap her head around what could have prompted him to do such a thing. "Whose cat is it?"

Her hopes that this tiny and obviously clumsy fur ball, still drowning in their sheet, was someone else's problem, vanished when he said: "As of today, she's ours."

He had joined her, squatting down near the bed to help the cat out. When he pulled his hand out from the rumpled sheet, the cat had wrapped itself around his fingers, her teeth sunk into one of them.

"She's so feisty," he chuckled. "That's why I picked that one, she's like a cat version of you."

She stared at him in disbelief, stared at his stupid, goofy smile, as he dangled and shook his hand playfully, in a fake attempt to drop the cat. Olivia closed her eyes, taking a few deep and calming breaths. When she reopened them, the cat was still holding on to Peter's hand with her teeth and two front legs, her hind ones batting the air furiously.

"Why did you get a cat."

He probably noticed the ominous quality of her tone, because he finally shifted his attention from the animal to her. His smile became less idiotic, but it didn't disappear either. "Because you're stuck in this bed all day, all alone, and you need company."

The cat had fallen off at last, and was already well on its way back to Olivia's leg. Sensing her disapproval, and maybe fearing for the creature's safety, Peter grabbed it before Olivia could.

"I don't need a cat, I need _work_," she seethed, her frustration only growing when he simply smiled at her, scratching the kitten's neck, who was already purring extremely loudly between his hands.

"You need rest," he countered her calmly. "Doctor's orders."

She peered at him. "My blood pressure isn't exactly staying low right now, Peter," she said warningly. "Can you guess why?"

He sighed, a bit dramatically, before hopping onto the bed, unceremoniously forcing her to move to the side to give him more room. "Honey, this was not meant to annoy you."

"Oh really," she said between clenched teeth, staring at the cat. She still looked like she was in heaven right now, humming away.

"Hey," he said, making her look back at him. He was still smiling, but it was softer, more tender. It was exactly the kind of look she could rarely resist. Damn it. "I didn't simply get her so you would have someone to cuddle with when I'm not around. I got her to prove ourselves we can actually take care of an actual breathing being, and keep it alive for at least two weeks."

She couldn't help it. She had to chuckle at that, closing her eyes again. She shook her head as she fell back upon the pillows. "We're way past the' trying' stage, as far as our relationship is concerned," she noted, unnecessarily. "Even if _she_ doesn't survive us, we'll still have to go on with our current…predicament."

Peter offered her his most disapproving scowl, before bending over her middle section, bringing his lips close to her stomach. "What mommy meant to call you was 'our perfect little soul', you just heard her all wrong because of all the amniotic fluid in your ears."

What Olivia really meant to do was push his head away from the curve of her belly, but as if of their own accord, her fingers got lost in his hair instead, and she was unable to contain yet another tired, hormonal chuckle, her eyes once again closed.

She felt him move, and she reopened her eyes, meeting his gaze. A soft, blue gaze that had way too much power on her bones and overall wellbeing.

Damn it.

"If you really don't want the cat, I'll find another home for her," he said quietly. "But I really hope you'll give her a chance, first. She might grow on you, like I did."

She squeezed his hair, affectionately, shaking her head a little. "Look at where all that growth led us," she half-joked, though in all honesty, she still felt quite overwhelmed by the prospect of everything that was to come.

She didn't need to say it out loud. He knew it, of course. That's why he had gotten the cat.

After a few more seconds of silent staring, she sighed again, in obvious defeat. "Two weeks," she warned the kitten, who just blinked at her, while Peter let out a victorious cackle.

"Did you hear that, Mrs. Papaya? You're officially on trial."

"Mrs. Papaya?" Olivia repeated.

"She's the friendliest of cats," Peter stated simply, before gently putting her upon Olivia's extended stomach.

She expected the cat to swiftly start moving again, but was genuinely surprised when she didn't. She just stood there, intrigued, sniffing the bulge of her belly button.

That was until her daughter gave her a firm kick from inside her womb, and Mrs. Papaya went flying into the air, jumping away in shock with so much force that she fell off the bed altogether.

"See," Peter observed. "They already love each other."


End file.
